


Symbiosis

by trppnwtz



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gotham City - Freeform, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Slow Burn, TDKR Timeline, lots of comic references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trppnwtz/pseuds/trppnwtz
Summary: The workplace messaging platform seemed like the last place to encounter a twist of fate.
Relationships: Bane/Original Female Character
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

Hexagons are fascinating when you think about it. Equilateral, equiangular and perfectly symmetrical. Escher revered them in his tessellations, Hales in this theorem; every honeycomb and basalt column on the planet paid homage. One simple shape upon which artists, mathematicians, bees, and lava flows could all agree.

On Mel’s computer screen was an intricate map made entirely of hexagons, and all she could do was stare.

She was bored as hell.

The interlocked hexagons built the chemical structure of cellulose before delving into a multi page abstract on its potential as biofuel. It was a marvelous idea, she agreed, but none of these proposals ever detailed how to make the process viable. She tipped her head back against her office chair. It required such specific enzymes to break it down that the cost outweighed the benefit. Financial would never greenlight the study until someone cracked that code. Until then these clusters of hexagons would show up on her screen about twice a year and each time would conclude, as always, with an unsatisfying stalemate.

Mel turned away towards the windows. It was sunny; it been grey and drizzly all last week but it was beginning to feel like spring had come for real. She glanced at the clock. Now was as good a time as ever to take her lunch. Maybe she’d even draw it out a bit and go to the park to sit and eat and soak in the sunshine.

Her laptop chimed, the Wayne Enterprises messaging platform flashing in the notification bar. Mel’s eyebrows raised.

Edward.

She wasn’t terribly surprised. He was not really her boss-- boss adjacent, maybe? Certainly higher up on the pecking order. A nice guy, a bit smug, on the Board of Directors in some capacity but she didn’t remember how. At the Christmas party he’d chatted her up over multiple glasses of champagne and the messages had trickled in ever since.

**_Jan 27, 3:44pm_ **

_17 seconds. You? http://www.gothamtimes.com/crosswords/game/mini_

**_Feb 12, 10:03am_ **

_21 seconds. I must be distracted. ;) https://www.gothamtimes.com/crosswords/game/mini_

**_Mar 18, 11:51am_ **

_Seemed up your alley… http://www.vickivale.com/blog/225922/2016-will-the-real-raised-beds-please-stand-up_

And today:

**_Apr 28, 12:07pm_ **

_Any interest in joining me at a sort of Board soiree on Friday? Probably too stuffy and boring for a lady of your interests, but this guy never skimps on the catering. ;)_

A coy little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t terribly interested in Edward. He was smart, to be sure, and cocky as well. He also wasn’t the first of his type to ask her out; they were like moths and she was a flame. She couldn’t really explain why and, honestly, she hadn’t bothered examining it too much. He was, however, the first to flirt via expert level crossword puzzles and she was admittedly flattered. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Left to her own devices her free time was admittedly rather uninteresting and she rarely turned down a chance to get dolled up and enjoy a pricey glass of wine. It usually took no more than a hair flick for these types of men to bend over backwards, anyways. She was a pro.

**_Apr 28, 12:15pm_ **

_Intriguing! Time/place?_

She rested her cheek in her hand and watched as a text bubble instantly appeared, flickering as he wrote his reply. She glanced at the sunshine again and fiddled with a pencil. Another damn hexagon she realized. Instead of scowling she twirled it around in her hand, taking in the hidden symmetrical miracle of its shape, and used the eraser to gently nudge a leaf of the small potted plant on her desk. _Peperomia argyreia_ , Watermelon Peperomia. Native to South America, happiest in a shady spot with bright light and soil with good drainage. She’d name him Julius. Mel felt her smile melt into something warmer as she gazed at his leaves, marked like little watermelons. She touched one with a finger, stroking the smooth green stripes as Edward messaged her details. _8pm on Friday_. She almost added it to her calendar but figured it wasn’t worth the effort. She’d remember. Instead she gazed at Julius, this little Venezuelan plant that sat in a pot twelve stories above the ground and two rows of desks from the sunny window, nestled in his unnatural bright shady spot in his specially purchased well draining soil. He seemed happy. She hoped so, anyway.

\--

Strictly speaking, she hadn’t forgotten. While her hair curler was heating, she’d sipped a can of wine and watched the contestants of a Friday night reality show shriek at one another until she’d realized it was 7:25pm. Now Mel blew out a breath of relief as she slid on a pair of strappy sandals. Somehow her Spanx were smooth, her hair was pinned up, and she’d even managed to chuck on some earrings and a bracelet and it was only 7:51pm. By the front door she had one of those cheap floor length mirrors. She’d never bothered to hang it, opting instead to lean it against the wall and make do with the awkward angle. She bent closer and popped a lid off of a tube of lipstick. It was one of those brands that boasted _24-hour, forever, no smudge, no turning back, all holds barred color_ : one end had the color that slicked on bright and dried sticky, the other a smooth gloss that made her mouth look and feel human again. Mel refused to look at the ingredients. Waxes and oils made up most cosmetics, which were all made of esters and acids and hydrocarbons. She didn’t want to think about any more goddamn hexagons.

Her phone buzzed, and she didn’t bother checking it. It was 8pm on the dot. She looked at herself in the mirror and her reflection stared back in its little black dress and unsmudgable red lips; the effect was effortless, perfect. She tossed the tube on the couch before heading out the door.

\--

“Wow.”

Whoever the host was, he was wealthy. _Extremely_ wealthy. If the twenty-first story penthouse apartment hadn’t already tipped her off, Mel would’ve known it the minute the elevator doors swished open. Edward held out an arm.

“After you.”

She stepped out of the elevator and it was as though the very air reeked of money. Everything looked expensive in an untouchable way, like aliens had arranged things into the perfect facsimile of a billionaire’s home but no human being had ever stepped foot inside. But there were humans inside, many in fact. Men mingling with drinks or sitting rigidly in crisp suits, some laughing, some eating, some snapping their fingers at faceless caterers for more champagne. The occasional flash of color came from the occasional female in a bright dress, but they were sorely outnumbered. Across the foyer sat an antiseptic orchid arrangement in a glass tray. Mel shifted her clutch.

To his credit Edward made a decent companion. When she’d met him outside her building he’d held the car door open.

“After you, m’lady.”

He had run his palms over his thighs and watched as she buckled her seatbelt.

“You look great.”

“Thank you,” she’d grinned, flicking her hair, “you know how to make a gal feel special.”

Edward had laughed and revved the engine, driving them down through the city to the ritzy neighborhood on the east side of the park. He was not unattractive she decided; he was perhaps in his late thirties, tall, not especially fit but quick and clever. He was exceptionally neat from his polished Ferragamos to his carefully combed hair. Once in the car he was a little awkward, trying cooly to conceal it behind his cocky words.

“Like I said, I’m not sure how dull this is going to be,” he’d drawled after passing his keys off to the valet, “I apologize in advance.”

Mel had just adjusted her wrap and shrugged.

“Don’t worry about me, Edward, I’m a big girl.”

He’d chuckled and offering her the crook of his elbow.

“Please, call me Ed. Everyone does.”

In another circumstance she might’ve pretended not to notice the offering but she was having a nice time and she wasn’t one to turn up her nose at a gentleman with such expensive shoes. She looped a hand through his arm and gave his bicep a purposeful little scratch with her nails, smirking when she could’ve sworn he shuddered.

“Then feel free to call me Mel,” she’d steered him towards the extravagant front doors, “everyone does.”

As the evening progressed, however, her good mood began to sour. Ed was fairly attentive, involving her in conversations when he could and frequently remembering to keep her fed and watered. He had not been exaggerating about the catering, which was decadent to say the least. She knew that if a person asked the right caterer in the right way they could end up with a tupperware at the end of the night; after her eyes had taken in the baked brie and crab cakes, she’d begun scanning the room for that perfect caterer to befriend.

“John Daggett!”

A slender man sidled over and shook Ed’s hand.

“Glad you could make it, Nygma. It’s about time we started seeing your face at these things.”

Mel put on a pretty smile and placed her wine on the table behind her to free a hand but John Daggett didn’t offer. He and Ed continued their conversation without him giving her even a passing glance. She bristled. This must be the guy who was hosting the thing; if his perfect sports jacket and smarmy turtleneck didn’t give him away, his shitty elitist attitude did. She vaguely remembered the name John Daggett as belonging to one of the Wayne Enterprises execs, but beyond that she knew nothing besides her growing dislike of this man she had just met.

“I commend you -- really, Daggett -- because, speaking professionally, I can tell you that not everyone is equipped to see value before it becomes commodity,” Ed said and, in an act of boldness she had not thought he possessed, draped an arm around her waist. She couldn’t decide whether or not she was impressed “I mean, three years ago who would’ve thought that gravel mines would be the talk of the in crowd?”

Daggett glanced at Ed’s hand resting lazily on her hip then briefly lingered on her breasts as the two men continued to speak. Never looked her in the face, never introduced himself; Ed’s posturing, conscious or otherwise, made it very clear that she was decoration, a prop in a LBD. He sipped his scotch and with mingled disgust and horror she realized the rim of his expensive tumbler formed a hexagon. She remembered the orchid display by the front door. Mel’s skin itched, every single centimeter of dermis, and she wanted to climb out of it and leave it standing in stolid silence at Ed’s side. Daggett gestured to a closed door in the corner as he moved away.

“We’re talking shop in the study in five, grab a drink and bring your strategist’s mind.”

Ed was plainly delighted with himself. He smoothed his fingers over his perfect hair, gave her waist a squeeze, and murmured in her ear.

“You must be my harbinger of good fortune.”

She gingerly extracted herself from his hold under the pretense of collecting her wine. Taking a sip she gave him a brittle smile.

“Lucky you.”

Emboldened by either his drink or the prospect of high-powered business, Ed caught her hand.

“I won't be long, I promise.”

He pressed a kiss to her knuckles before grinning and striding away. Mel watched him go, feeling belligerent. Being left alone at a weird gathering of billionaires and stony faced businessmen had not been what she signed up for. For a moment she stood there stupidly, wine glass glued to her lips, looking around for her next move. A few of the women were clustered by a window, looking like a colorful array of bored birds. She snorted. Not really her scene.

For lack of inspiration she grabbed a fresh glass of champagne and pretended to be interested in the various pieces of art as she walked stiffly towards the hall. What was it with rich people and Japanese antiques? It was like you gave a man a couple million dollars and with a sudden clarity he realized he needed a decorative fucking ranma panel. She threw back her wine and left the empty glass on a sideboard. On a different day she might’ve seen the rudeness in nosing about someone’s apartment but tonight she scathingly decided a personal tour was her reward for being an ornament. The hall, to her surprise, led to a short staircase which in turn led to an antechamber with four doors. Two were closed and she moved past them. The third was interesting: inside she could see tall windows and a pristine grand piano. The fourth led to an extravagantly decorated toilet --complete with a pair of okimono statues she noted, rolling her eyes-- so she moved back to the third door and walked inside.

The sounds of the party had tapered off when she went down the stairs. Mel stood and revealed in the clean and silent quality of the air around her. She could still feel the ghost of Ed’s arm on her waist and his lips on her knuckles but her skin was no longer crawling with revulsion and fury. She also noted that she was tipsy, but not quite drunk. Just beginning to feel that exquisite, unbothered state where she didn’t care if people ignored her, didn’t care if someone treated her like she was stupid. She put down her clutch and placed her palms on the cool black piano cover, inhaling deeply through her nose. The instrument was large; powerful, she thought, though she didn’t quite understand what she meant by that, only that it was true. She exhaled and moved around to its front. There was untouched sheet music sitting on the music rack. Mel rested a knee on the bench and leaned closer to inspect it, then suddenly drew back. Her calm and power and nonchalance wavered.

_Ständchen (from Schwanengesang)_

Unspecific memories flickered in her mind: practicing sulkily at home, arguing about lessons, the nerves before recitals. Phantoms images more so than true memories. She frowned and carefully, with a feeling somewhere between bitterness and reverence, her fingers pressed out the first several bars. She was rusty as hell. Over her shoulder came the sound of applause, and she jerked her hands back and whirled. A man was leaning against the door frame, cool as you please, an odd slice of a smile across his angular face.

“Sorry,” Mel tucked a loose curl behind her ear; it was a subtle little move but it tended to work in situations like these, “I should’ve asked.”

The man waved away her apology and stepped into the room.

“Not a problem, trust me,” he sipped his scotch, “no one touches that thing anyway.”

She gave a light little laugh and considered her options for an exit strategy, wondering if Ed was done talking fucking shop.

“So,” the man went on, “what's your story?”

_Oy._

Her phone was in her clutch, thank god, so she was one fake text from being on her merry way. She shrugged and reached for the bag.

“Oh, I’m not...I’m here with a colleague, I’m not really involved with--”

He snorted.

“Obviously.”

Her hand stopped an inch from the clutch, her brain too shocked at his rudeness to continue firing. John Daggett was quickly downgraded to the silver metal on her shit list. Who the hell did this prick think he was? He gave her another one of his strange wide smiles.

“So what is your deal? The next Adele, that sort of thing?” he waggled his eyebrows. “The tortured artist?”

Blood was pounding in her veins and, to her frustration, so now was champagne. She shouldn’t engage, she knew that. She wasn’t just _not dumb_. Her intelligence wasn’t a negation. She was fucking smart as hell and also slightly drunk and looked hot in this dress and didn’t owe this creep another second of her time.

“No, I’m a botanist.”

She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress, didn’t owe this creep another second of her time...and also hated not having the last word.

“A botanist?”

“Yeah, a botanist.”

“What, flowers and things?”

_Duh._

“Plant physiology, biochemistry. My dissertation was on chemical ecology and conservation-- ”

“Christ, then what are you doing at a party like this, professor? Doesn’t someone pay you for all those smarts?”

She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress, didn’t owe this creep another second of her time, hated not having the last word...and was becoming royally pissed off.

She knew this guy; she didn’t have to know his name or his deal to know exactly who he was. His fingers flexed restlessly on his glass. His suit was expensive but not as nice as some of the other guests. In her heels he was just barely taller than her. She would’ve put money on the fact that his business card contained the letters MBA, but she and her PhD weren't the gambling types. Oh yeah, she knew this guy.

“It’s _Doctor,_ actually.”

The man regarded her coolly and Mel stared right back. After a moment he exhaled through his nose and, to her horror, gave her a wicked and almost secretive look.

“Go on,” he purred, “be honest, what did that degree get you? Secretary? Administrative assistant?”

Each second that she stood frozen and fumbling for a response was like a hot poker on her rawest nerve. Whether or not he’d meant to, he’d found it. She tipped her chin up but her words were stiff.

“Research and development.”

“Hmm, department head?”

“Research chemist.”

His smile was smug and mean.

“Got it.”

He took another sip and slowly dragged his eyes all over her. Ed’s touches were nothing in comparison. She felt filthy. He stepped closer and her spine bumped against the side of the piano.

“Let me give you a tip,” his voice was sincere and oily and cut like a knife between her ribs, “you can fluff your resume at these things all you like, but you’ll get what you want much faster if you keep your lipstick fresh, find a higher heel, and let that body do the work for you. Trust me, it's much more convincing than the unappreciated brainiac gimmick.”

His fingers snaked inside his suit coat and came out holding a card, which he tucked smoothly under the strap of her dress. She wrenched herself away, stumbling towards the windows, but he just straightened his lapels and strode towards the door.

“Give me a call. And if you must play that thing, make it New York, New York or something. No one wants your depressing classics,” he shot a final smile over his shoulder as he disappeared round the corner, “this is a party after all.”

The air was once again clean and silent as his footsteps faded away. Mel felt betrayed by its indifference and she stood trembling with humiliation. She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress---she couldn’t finish the sentence. Crying would be the logical thing to do but she couldn’t muster a tear, couldn’t muster a single sound. Something small and white caught her eye by the furthest window. _Phalaenopsis japonica_ , a nago orchid gazed back with its kind little flowers. Native to, of **fucking** course, Japan and the Korean peninsula. Its leaves were dark forest green; her heart leapt into her throat and her body into action. The soil in the pot was a bark mixture, which was correct, but it was much too dry. Mel cradled the little planter in her arms, making her way into the toilet where she turned the faucet on and offered the blossoms a well needed trickle of water. She let it continue to run even after she pulled the plant away and held it to her chest, forcing herself to smile at the flowers in the mirror but not meeting her own eyes. She clutched the pot until her knuckles turned white, tensed every muscle, clenched her brain and her lungs and her teeth in their sham smile, until finally letting it all drop away. Slowly, the trembling subsided.

The orchid’s original location was too shady which explained why its leaves were so dark. The windows in the piano room faced south and west. Mel placed the planter onto a new side table closer to the south with a clinical precision. Then she turned on her heel and moved purposefully towards the stairs and the hall and the front door. She was going home. She grabbed her wrap and was nearly out when she remembered her bag which was still on the piano.

_Fuck, Mel._

She didn’t know why almost forgetting her purse was the thing to finally make her eyes well up, but it was. Blinking furiously, she made a beeline back through the hall, down the stairs, and across the antechamber and stormed back into the empty room. Her feet barreled across the threshold; at the same moment that her fingers closed around the clutch and the first angry tear trailed down her cheek all of her senses suddenly became aware of a massive presence. Mel stopped cold. The room was not empty. A man now stood by the southernmost window, a man who looked up stoically when she entered, who was absolutely enormous and clasping the lapels of a dark motorcycle jacket in his immense hands. But what made her heart pound was the mask. She could hear his breathing as it hissed from within the twisted metal piping that covered his mouth and nose, gripping his skull like a spider. Who the hell was he? A chilly fear trickled down her spine and at the moment she remembered the unshed tears still shining in her eyes. She looked away, embarrassed and decidedly unnerved. Could this night get any fucking worse?

“Such fine music has been played into a void, I fear.”

It was not at all what she expected his voice to sound like nor the kind of thing she would’ve expected this beast of a man to say. There was something almost _gentlemanly_ about his words, words that warbled and hissed from a masked behemoth. Mel whisked a palm over the tear on her cheek. She rolled what he had said over and around in her head. He must have heard her playing, if you could call it that, which means he probably heard what happened after as well. _Playing into a void_ , he’d called it. She could feel his eyes on her.

She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress, didn’t owe this--this _giant_ another second of her time...and hated not having the last word.

“If everyone is in the void, where does that put you and I?”

He stood calmly but his gaze was piercing, a predator’s gaze. Calculating and sharp; he blinked. She blinked. Was that... amusement? A mechanical crackling from within the mask was his only response. Mortification suddenly flooded her when she remembered that there was a business card still tucked into her cleavage. She fumbled for a moment before managing to rip it out. Her chest heaved.

_Phillip Stryver._

_Executive Vice President and mother fucking MB **fucking** A. _

_Ugh._

Her only consolation was that her anger overwhelmed a second wave of tears. Knowing that nothing could possibly make this worse, she dropped the card on the piano cover deliberately and made for the door. When the behemoth made no attempt to stop her, Mel breathed a sigh of relief. She twisted herself in her wrap and slipped into the penthouse elevator, leaving the disastrous party to play itself out without her.

\--

xo, trppnwtz

:)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your time and interest in this idea that I'm finally expanding! It's definitely becoming the slowest of slow burns but...soon. :)
> 
> Summerrain22, for your kind words this one is for you.

Her building wasn’t new nor was it old enough to be romantic, but it had large windows with wide wooden sills. As soon as she’d moved in Mel had shoved a couch into the brightest corner where two of the windows touched and it was there, four years later, that she had built a blanket nest and spent the weekend. Every now and again she’d unwrapped herself long enough to do something essential. For much of Saturday morning she had managed to convince herself that she was merely relaxing, but before long it felt correct to describe the behavior as wallowing in self pity and she didn’t fight the thought. When you relaxed you were expected to do yoga, splurge on an expensive pastry, go out and enjoy a Saturday like an unattached professional woman with a disposable income. Wallowing was meals of toast and wine, napping, and reality shows as a balm to soothe her wounded ego. She preferred the latter.

The sun had graciously stuck around and now warmed her shoulders. She looked away from the tv and tipped her head back onto the armrest; as the bright light danced behind her closed eyes something tickled her elbow. A heartleaf philodendron, _philodendron hederaceum_ , trailed a long tendril across her skin. It had flourished in this corner and she had put several push pins up along the window to give it space to twist and creep. Mel rubbed a leaf between her fingers affectionately and glanced at the computer in her lap. The web browser had three open tabs with three different image searches. She scrolled through the first one: _medical masks_. Lots of blue, white, that antiseptic green/gray seemingly reserved for hospitals, lots of mention of the words like infection, prevention, and fluid. She grimaced, hesitated, and clicked through the second tab. _Gas masks_. The colors were more promising but these were too big and not nearly as strange as the one that lingered ominously in her memory. She sipped her glass of wallowing wine and twirled the philodendron vine around her finger. Why would someone have been wearing a gas mask at that stupid party, anyway? On the cab ride home she had decided the massive man must’ve been security of some kind but as time dragged on she felt less sure. Mel remembered his eyes, the clear and lethal cut of them as they raked over her tears before she could hide them; the ever so slight crinkle at the corners that had maybe been a smile. Half-heartedly she scrolled through the third tab, _breathing masks_ , but she found she didn’t really want to think about the masked man any longer. Security was the most logical explanation.

Mel moved the computer to the coffee table and untangled herself from the blankets. Her legs were stiff with disuse as she crossed to the kitchen with her empty glass. The fridge was dismally bare: half a pack of sliced cheese, a bell pepper that had seen better days, a nearly empty bottle of white wine. Tipping the rest into her glass, she took a sip as she stared vacantly at the collection of useless condiments on the shelves. The oven clock read 3:28pm. She hesitated, looking between the blanket nest on the couch and the front door. Beside the coat closet, dusty with neglect, sat a keyboard. The words _unappreciated brainiac_ slithered through her mind causing her stomach to clench unpleasantly. She slammed the fridge closed and dug around the drawers and cabinets. A televised argument escalated and squawked out of the tv as she shuffled back to the couch with her supplies and she turned up the volume to fill the empty space with sound as she worked.

When the clock ticked over to 4:00pm Mel sat back into her sunny corner. Seven neat little jars of water glinted on the wide window sill, each with a propagated philodendron sprout. Their mother, now with shorter and much tidier tendrils, brushed the top of her hair with a heart-shaped leaf. She could go to the store later, maybe tomorrow. Mel burrowed into the blankets and smiled at little baby plants; they would need names.

\--

Julius revealed in a ray of sunshine, the only thing keeping her sane as Monday morning slogged towards noon. When she arrived at the office an email was waiting in her inbox shifting half the team onto a pharmaceutical project. A cosmetic pharmaceutical project, nonetheless, that has been given top priority in light of a looming shareholders meeting in June. After a moment of dull irritation she had sent a casual email in perfect corporatese detailing the skill set for which she was hired, a skill set that benefited her current assignment on alternative energy. Her department head had replied two hours later in equally fluid corporatese that Wayne Chemical felt confident that her chemistry background would translate appropriately to pharmaceutical projects. She would be happy to write Mel a recommendation should a position at Wayne Energy become vacant. Mel read the response twice, grabbed her coat, and went to an early lunch.

For some hateful reason she purchased a prepacked salad. It sat untouched beside her on the park bench as she flicked through LinkedIn, through the messages from recruiters that she’d let stack up, scrolling restlessly through all of the botany related-- _actually_ botany related-- jobs in the country. Internship, internship, assistant that, assistant this, internship. She found something promising in Seattle; it was definitely more horticulture than botany but at a large corporation with a decent salary. She googled apartments in Seattle and blanched at sky high rental costs. _Jesus, it made Gotham look affordable_. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it, dropping it to her side and sighing heavily through her nose.

Every ingredient in the stupid salad was individually wrapped in plastic which made it both cumbersome and amazingly wasteful. As she assembled it a small pile of trash built up beside her, adding guilt to her ever increasing emotional tangle. _Holy fuck, it was only Monday_. The bench was surrounded by bunches of buttery daffodils, their cheery faces turned up towards the sun. She looked in the same direction but couldn’t match their attitude. She scowled at the bright little flowers; _narcissus pseudonarcissus_ , their symbolism was renewal and rebirth. She couldn’t help but to feel a little betrayed by their significance as her lunch break ticked away. Her mother always called them easter lilies, and neither her daughter’s botany doctorate nor any power in heaven or earth would convince her that they were not truly lilies. But they were not lilies; they were mild and ornamental little bulbs. Almost as soon as she had the thought Mel regretted it. She took a bite of salad and watched as the yellow petals rustled in the breeze. It wasn’t their fault that they were what they were. It was the best that any living thing could do, really, being exactly what they were designed to be. How could she fault them for not being lilies, for not being more?

The phone buzzed again. She tore her gaze away from the daffodils and checked it absently. There were three new emails in her inbox.

_**May 2, 11:41am** \- 25% off flats, mules, and sandals, THIS WEEK ONLY! <3 _

_**May 2, 11:59am** \- LinkedIn: Gina R. (CA Invasive Plant Council) has sent you a message _

_**May 2, 12:07pm** \- Meeting Invitation: Coffee and clean energy _

The third was a notification from the damn Wayne Enterprises messaging platform. Mel speared a forkful of lettuce and clicked the message open.

_Meeting invitation to m.isley@we.com_

_**Coffee and Clean Energy?**_ _(view on WE calendar)_

> _Date: Thurs, May 5th_
> 
> _Time: 3:00- 4:00pm_
> 
> _Location: La Marzocco Cafe_

Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth as she read and then reread the sender.

> _Event creator: Miranda Tate (m.tate@we.com)_

Mel sat frozen for a moment. _What the fuck._ Miranda Tate, like, **_Miranda Tate_** , Miranda Tate? Impact investor, Wayne Enterprises board member, and philanthropic mind behind the ill-fated energy project that had shit all over her life? She googled the name just to be certain, scrolling through two pages of search results while the invitation sat unanswered and simmering a hole through her brain. Why did Miranda Tate want to meet with her? And why now, three long miserable years after the project had come to a screeching halt? Three years after she’d been reassigned and left to rot in research. She clicked on an article from Gotham Magazine; it was topped with a photo of a dark haired woman sitting beneath the wide leaves of a Bird of Paradise palm, her posture and smile both casual and confident. Mel ignored the text of the article-- glowing praise, she was sure-- and stared at the picture, looking for something. What was she looking for? She would never be able to find it if she didn’t know what it was. Photo Miranda just smiled coyly back. Mel shoved her phone into her coat pocket and headed back to the office while the hole continued to burn through her skull and down her spine.

She was so distracted when she returned that it took her a moment to realize that something had appeared on her desk in her absence. Her mouth hardened then twitched at the corner: an elaborate arrangement of roses, two dozen at least, sat garishly in Julius’s sun beam. A small twinge of her usual archness flared to life as she plucked the card from its nest; as her fingers brushed the red petals she could practically feel the silica or whatever god awful product that has been used to preserve their freshness. The flare went back out.

_**When is red lipstick no longer red lipstick?** _

The burning hole landed in her stomach gracelessly.

_**When it --truly-- becomes a young lady.** _

_No more boring parties, cross my heart._

_Ed_

On another day, in another lifetime, she might’ve rolled her eyes and put up a front of being miffed. Not today, not now, not with a hole burning and clenching itself in her guts. Today was a different kind of day. Almost without thinking she plopped into her seat, pulled up Miranda Tate’s meeting invitation and accepted. Her finger clicked the button and the burning in her belly took on a new life. It burned ever still, burned hot and bright, but it no longer clenched and ached. It felt warm. It felt alive. She leaned back and gazed at the waxed flowers that had once also been alive, that were now no more than an embalmed body on a mortuary slab. Mel pushed them aside and settled Julius back in the sun. His striped leaves were soft and smooth and clean and lovely. It occurred to her that she adored the little plant and she smiled crookedly at the odd thought.

When she returned home that evening, bottle of wine in her bag, the first thing she did was gather all of her lipsticks and toss them into the dumpster.

\--

La Marzocco was a small coffee shop with furnishings meant to be both fashionable and laid back. White subway tile lined the walls and the perfectly constructed espresso drinks were served on a wide counter made of elegantly stained cherry. In the southeast corner there sat a tall fiddle leaf fig; the light was only decent but the soil looked tended and Mel watched as the bespectacled young man behind the counter stepped out to gently run a damp cloth over the leaves. She approved.

She had been unsure--had agonized, if she was honest-- about many details of the meeting all week. Silly things, like whether she should arrive early, right on time, or a couple minutes late. Would one make her look more professional, more desperate, more important? In the end she’d walked in the door at two minutes before 3pm and found Miranda Tate standing at the register. In person Mel discovered immediately that this woman was not only extraordinarily gorgeous but extraordinarily intimidating even though she was clearly trying to be friendly. She paid for their coffee without allowing a moment's protest, mentioning offhandedly that she recognized Mel from her company profile picture and commenting on the long awaited arrival of the spring weather.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me,” Miranda added, abruptly changing the subject with a smile, “I know how busy you must be.”

“Oh, of course,” Mel fumbled, not having expected the stream of conversation to require her input just yet, “I’m happy to help if I can.”

Their coffee landed on the bar in front of them in neat little cups with matching saucers and latte art. They made their way across the cafe and settled at a table by the window.

“That’s so good to hear. Clean energy is a passion of mine.”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

 **Ugh** , what an awkward response. Miranda stirred the delicate foam on her cappuccino with an equally delicate spoon, looking like an image from Parisian Pinterest. Mel crossed her legs and matched her demeanor as best she could, dismayed to realize how nervous she really was. She never did this sort of thing, sitting in coffee shops with friends and colleagues, especially not with other women. She knew how to attend meetings in the office, knew how to flirt and date, knew how to send a killer email. Here in this posh cafe with this posh woman who was unquestionably her superior she was at a loss. Miranda gazed at her evenly over the brim of her cup.

“I’d love to hear about your time working on the fusion project.”

And, with another one of her disarming conversational twists, there it was. The topic Mel had prepared for, had readied questions and answers for, dumped straight into her lap wrapped in the guise of politeness. Mel fiddled with her own spoon.

“Right.”

It was amazing to her that after three years her chest could still ache with bitterness. Lack of closure? she wondered. Or maybe sitting across the table from a responsible party?

“It was such a great opportunity, and a really great learning experience.”

 _Jesus **fucking** Christ had she used the word great nine hundred times already?_ She glanced at the floor and away just as quickly. The pattern in the tiles was made of hundreds and thousands of tiny black and white hexagons. Miranda eyed her mildly, and Mel had the sense that she was being carefully analyzed.

She was fucking smart as hell, wasn’t even slightly drunk, and didn’t owe this woman anything.

Mel tucked the little spoon onto the saucer.

“What exactly did you want to know?”

She was fucking smart as hell, wasn’t even slight drunk, didn’t own this woman anything, and now the ball was out of her court.

Miranda shrugged and leaned an elbow onto the table, the very essence of easiness.

“I had a good deal to do with the financial side, cost analysis and progress reports, sort of the broad strokes of the thing. But in all honesty I had very little involvement with the real day to day... _stuff._ ”

She wrinkled her nose sweetly when she said the word _stuff_ , and Mel felt a sudden spark of comprehension. She knew that move; she’d used that move herself, just like when she flicked her hair and arranged her hand on a man’s arm just so. It was odd, almost, to see the same tactics on another face but it was even stranger that she felt her nerves diminish. Miranda’s large blue eyes twinkled as she sipped her coffee.

“And here I am,” Miranda went on, “three years later with nothing to show and no idea where to start to begin again.”

“I’m not sure I’m the best person--”

“Perhaps,” her tone was even, “and I say this with all of the very best intention and respect, you might let me decide that for myself?”

Mel wondered idly if having an accent made people respond more positively to you. She couldn’t place Miranda’s and it added such a layer of sophistication and mystery to her words and Mel imagined it was rare that she did not get her way. With a clever twist of conversation and a smile the Eds of the business world, the John Daggetts, the Philip fucking Stryvers probably played right into her hands. She laced her fingers on the tabletop and felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. _Game respected game_.

She was fucking smart as hell, not even slightly drunk, didn’t owe this woman anything...but was more than happy to speak the truth if that’s what she wanted.

“May I level with you, Ms. Tate?”

“Of course.”

“I was the botanist brought in on what was essentially a nuclear physics project. **_Higher ups_** ,” Mel heard the edge seep into her voice, “usually do that to make sure there is always an odd person out to present a different point of view. So, while I was present and as involved as anyone one else, my role was more to keep the physicists thinking in tangible terms, to keep the engineers thinking in abstract terms, to keep the chemists from locking themselves in the lab all day long, and to throw in the odd notion about how to lower carbon emissions. A clean energy project where the only botanist is a babysitter is not a project about sustainability, it’s just greenwashing fodder for Gotham Magazine.”

She sat back heavily in her seat and waited. Mel had anticipated discussing the project, had anticipated answering basic questions about renewable energy. She hadn’t planned this turn of conversation but Miranda asked for honesty and she had nearly eight years of brutal honesty simmering. Even before Wayne had pulled the plug the process had been mismanaged and expensive, and when it fell apart because a scientist half the world away published a paper the entire endeavor was viewed as a failure and a joke.

Miranda sat quite still for a moment after Mel’s outburst. Mel supposed she had a right to feel surprised or offended and it might mean that she would spend the rest of her woefully uninteresting life stuck on pharmaceutical projects, but she didn’t care. The bright burning hole still seethed in her belly but it was lighter now and its warmth was calming.

“Then that was a gross misuse of talent, especially considering the content of your dissertation.”

The burning hole flickered, just for a second. _She knew about Mel’s dissertation?_ Miranda fanned her fingers out on the table and grinned ruefully.

“I haven’t read beyond the abstract, if I’m honest.” She shrugged once more. “You may not be a physicist but a botanist with your understanding of conservation and chemical ecology ought to have been considered, well, a true beacon on a project like this.”

Miranda laughed a pretty tinkling little laugh, her expression pleasantly bemused as if any alternative view was silly. Mel watched her and felt something like a lightness filling her ribs and the hole expanded and blazed.

_A beacon. No, a **true** beacon. _

She was used to flattery: being more than overqualified for her job, generous on the eyes, and much too smart to set anyone’s expectations of her to a level she could not exceed, it was heaped onto her daily. There was flattery in Miranda’s words, but there was so much more. Acknowledgement. Approval. Almost an apology. Mel sipped her coffee to buy herself a moment.

“Tell me, Dr. Isley,” Miranda toyed with the little spoon, “could you see yourself doing it all again? If the circumstances were right.”

Such a simple sentence yet it knocked the air out of Mel’s lungs.

“Working in clean energy?”

“Clean energy, yes, but more specifically continuing the work we’ve already begun.” Miranda wrinkled her nose again and winked. “I’m biased, you see.”

She smiled the same smile from the Gotham Magazine article, that coy quirk of her mouth. Mel studied her and saw something very different behind the sparkle in her dark blue eyes. Something like intelligence, something focused and precise and a little cautious. It impressed her; they were perhaps matched in their toolbox but, holy hell, this woman had something that Mel did not. Something clear and driven and...and...she didn’t know exactly what it was. Mel wanted some for herself. Meeting Miranda’s gaze, she mirrored her smile.

“If the circumstances were right.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, once again! This update is woefully overdue; aside from global craziness I needed to step back and create a clearer outline and clarify some details before barreling forward and I'm very happy I did. Thank you for joining me for this process and taking the time to comment, kudo, and follow.

\--

A small metal sign was rooted in the soil, polished and tidy and printed with a mild reminder.

_Please do not throw coins in the pond_

And she wasn’t throwing coins; she was, however, draping an arm over the back of the bench and skimming her fingers across the cool water. This was not explicitly prohibited and, though she imagined it was also not explicitly allowed, Mel did it anyway. She was sitting in the middle of photosynthesis, the air heavy and warm and the richness of the moist oxygen heady. Her mind was sharp and she felt reckless. It was powerful in here and she soaked it in.

On the northernmost tip of Robinson Park stood the enormous glass and metal structure that was the Wayne Botanical Gardens. She liked to work there beneath the canopy in the manufactured jungle. Occasionally she’d stroll through the desert wing to feel the arid heat prickle on her arms, or weave through the misty green light in the palm room, but in the end she always ended up back in the rainforest. This bench-- her bench as she thought of it now --was tucked in a rocky nook by a waterfall that rippled and splashed across the surface of the pond. Giant flowering water lilies nearly eight feet wide, _victoria amazonica_ , floated contentedly as they rode the gentle movement. Mel’s fingers trailed a lazy shape across the surface; the nearest lily shifted languidly closer and it was as if the pair of them were reaching out to one another. She smiled softly and considered its massive proportions as she packed her bag and rose from her seat. Nothing bothered these giants. The pond was not large so they nestled in beside one another, shifting, gliding, adjusting. They took up space. She could learn to be like a water lily.

The cosmetic pharmaceutical project had concluded shortly after the shareholders meeting in the middle of June. Afterwards she’d been shifted into research on the back end of an existing drug project. There was a time when this would’ve rankled her to no end, but now all she could see was the silver lining: a boring, minimal effort job meant she was able to invest nearly all of her free time and focus on _the project._ The new clean energy project that Miranda Tate had entrusted to her to cultivate. And Mel had thrown herself in the work: going back through years of papers and schematics, spending hours researching the physics she did not fully understand, scouring every outlet in the scientific community for developments in fusion technology. The conservationist in her had even decided to buy a fancy tablet to work on and keep her paper usage low. Sometimes she threw open the windows in her apartment and played her keyboard. She’d even gone on another date with Ed, if only because he promised to get a reservation at a restaurant where she had no hope of getting her own table. She’d hemmed and hawed and made an ordeal about their last date and it only seemed to spur him on to impress her. She let him. Every so often she’d email Miranda with updates or Miranda would email her with questions. Two weeks ago Mel’s phone had buzzed with a notification: another meeting invitation.

_**July 16, 5:03pm** \- Meeting Invitation: July check-in _

_Meeting invitation to: m.isley@we.com_

_July check-in  
_ _(view on WE calendar)_

_Date: Sat, July 30th_

_Time: 2:00pm_

_Location: 113 Chambers Ave - Miranda’s apartment_

_Event creator: Miranda Tate (m.tate@we.com)_

Mel felt an odd little thrill to be meeting someone in their West Parkside home. That area was all brownstones and, while centrally located, was quiet and oozed old money and influence. When Miranda opened the door it was immediately clear that her home was no exception to the rule.

“Come in! I thought we’d set up back in the sun room.”

Miranda was swathed in neck to toe crisp silk and linen, dark hair twisted into an effortless low chignon and her only ornament a slim gold watch resting daintily about her wrist. Mel glanced around as they walked down the hall. Everything was soft and elegant and expensive but it was absolutely the opposite of John Daggett’s penthouse. Even the obligatory rich person Asian antiques were different. They walked past a delicately carved set of drawers and Mel noticed that there was some kind of writing twisted into the floral motifs. It wasn’t Japanese, that much she knew; Sanskrit? Arabic, maybe?

A pair of glass doors stood ajar and a warm summer breeze wafted in the sweet smell of leaves and water and sunshine. The sun room, as Miranda had called it, was something like a combination of a large covered porch and the goddamn Wayne Botanical Gardens. Giant ravenea palms brushed the windows, Chinese evergreens and ficuses and daphnes-- some nestled in pots, some growing straight out of floor planters-- lined the walls. A fountain tinkled softly in the far corner and a teak sectional with plush cushions and matching table was in the other. A man was lounging in one of the seats and he glanced over when they entered.

_Oof._

The top button of his shirt was undone and his sleeves had been neatly rolled to reveal toned forearms; probably due to the summer heat but Mel didn’t care tremendously _why_ he had done it. He had one of the most perfect sets of cheekbones she’d ever seen on a human, a shadowy beard and an attitude of lazy confidence that seeped out of his pale blue eyes. She felt a mix of confusion at discovering this unexpected person and a need to fetch some smelling salts because he was hot as hell.

“Ander Mendoza, this is Dr. Mel Isley.”

He rose when Miranda introduced them. Mel was suddenly very glad she’d thrown on a decent outfit and had taken a moment with mascara before leaving the house. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and held out a hand.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Mendoza.”

He nodded and took her hand in his. The shake was firm and warm.

“Doctor.”

_Holy **hell**_ , he had an accent too. He hadn’t said enough for her to place it but it had made the word deliciously soft. The three of them sat around the table and Miranda patted Ander Mendoza’s arm.

“Dr. Isley worked on the initial run of the machine.” Miranda gestured between them as she spoke. “She’s the real brain behind this project. Ander has a history with this sort of thing, and since he was in town I invited him to sit in on our meeting.”

She gave Mel an apologetic little wink.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

Admittedly it _was_ a little stressful to be put on the spot like this, but Mel shrugged casually and chalked it up as another facet of Miranda’s eccentricity. Mendoza leaned back in his seat and regarded her with curiosity.

“You’re a physicist?”

How many times had she answered that question? A dozen? Fifty? Five million? Even delivered on the gentle slopes of his unidentifiable accent it still landed in her stomach with a thud. As the practiced, dumbed down, and slightly apologetic response rolled onto her tongue Mel thought of _victoria amazonica_ : huge, calm, unbothered and confident. She met Mendoza’s glacial eyes.

“A botanist. My background is primarily in biochemistry so, initially, I was brought on to field the conservation element. Keeping a clean energy project clean you could say.”

She was fucking smart as hell, was a true beacon, and didn’t owe anyone anything.

She shrugged and wrinkled her nose sweetly.

“It all sounds quite complicated but it ends up being lots of equations, a little chemistry, and making counter arguments for sustainability’s sake.”

Mendoza’s face melted into a warm smile. Was it her imagination or had Miranda shifted ever so slightly? Had she noticed? Was she, perhaps, impressed as Mel had once been impressed? Before she had a chance to look more closely, all clues were erased when Miranda leaned forward and rested her chin on her palm.

“What have you got for me today, doctor?”

Mel pulled her fancy tablet and a well worn folder out of her bag, spreading out the papers and tapping in the passcode as she began to speak.

“I’ve been looking over the reports from spring of 2010, which was the main phase for initial building, sourcing materials, those sorts of things.”

Her eyes flickered from the screen in front of her to her audience. _What did she have to lose?_

“There have been some interesting developments in fuel research since then, of course, although I recognize my own bias.”

It wasn’t precisely the point of the meeting but she dangled the carrot nonetheless. Perhaps some of her earlier recklessness still sparked in her synapses; perhaps she was simply owning the space. Miranda raised an eyebrow, thoughtfully.

“Such as?”

Mel’s stomach flipped with glee. She distinctly remembered bringing up this same point in 2010; it had been waved off. Now, six years later, she was no longer the bright eyed new doctor and her high hopes had blossomed into something more. Her optimism had become her agenda. She was a beacon, a true beacon. She tapped a finger on a printed table.

“If you look at this summary here, Dr. Woodrue opted to fuel the reactor with 100% lab produced heavy water, sourced from LexCorp.”

“Would the fuel matter very much if the reactor produces clean energy?”

Mel knew this question would surface. It always did. She was prepared but took a second to straighten the angle of the folder to occupy her hands. It was the moment of truth, after all; no need to rush.

“Fusion is an extremely effective means of producing clean energy as an output,” she began, carefully, “but would it truly be clean energy if the process and fuel resources themselves were finite or inherently wasteful?”

Silence hung in the air for one lingering awful moment. Miranda frowned but then nodded her head as she thought, inviting her to continue. Mel pressed onwards.

“Fusion processes require fuel, a confined environment with sufficient temperature, pressure, and confinement time to create a plasma in which fusion can occur. Hydrogen is the most common fuel in naturally occurring fusion, though in the case of most fusion reactors we’d be looking at a hydrogen isotope --something like deuterium or tritium or both-- because they require less extreme conditions to react. But that still doesn’t change the fact that they would need temperatures in the tens of millions of degrees to both heat their fuel and remain stable.”

She was rambling but _holy **shit**_ it felt good to just let this, whatever it was burning inside her, just flow free into the sunny world.

“If we are sourcing them from artificial processes,” her fingers ticked off each transgression, “transporting them from Metropolis, and paying exorbitantly for a product that is produced solely for this one purpose and cannot contribute to a sustainable system, I believe we need to reexamine our definition of conservation.”

“So the fuel in the first machine was hydrogen?”

Mendoza asked the question, watching her face over steepled fingers. Mel nodded.

“A mixture of hydrogen isotopes. All of which would’ve needed replacing at some point and also careful disposal.”

“How frequently?” Miranda asked.

Mel was glad she had looked into the process with some detail. They were past the point of her intellectual interest now; this was where her heart lay, where passion outweighed science and teetered on the edge of obsession. It was all so desperately clear in her mind; so simple, so necessary. It was intoxicating to feel that these two people sitting with her were _listening_.

“Not too often, not enough that sourcing would be a massive concern. But once it’s out of the reactor the process involves proper transport, immobilization, and storage...and all of that needs to happen efficiently because the materials decay quickly and that could prove, well, catastrophic.”

“How long?” She paused for a moment, calculating.

“It depends. Five months, maybe six but that would be generous.”

“Jeez, I hope Wayne Energy knew what they were doing when they pulled the plug.”

Mendoza shook his head and leaned back in his seat once more.

“But you were saying there is a better fuel source.”

“Yes.”

Mel toes wiggled with excited agitation in her shoes. She leaned forward and Mendoza matched her posture.

“Plant leaves with short lifespans.”

He furrowed his brow but she did not move back. The water could shift beneath her and she would adjust.

“Vegetable leaves. Beets, peppers, carrots, anything that can be produced in a greenhouse or a closed water system has a massive uptick in deuterium leaf water content. MIT began a study early last year.”

Mel turned her gaze to Miranda who was sitting in perfect stillness with that smooth and impressive intelligence dancing on her face. Mel pushed the tablet across the table to her and Miranda took it without looking away.

“Think about it: a fuel produced for clean energy,” once again Mel ticked the items off on her fingers, “during healthy food production, produced locally, and with a byproduct that is compostable. It’s a textbook perfect system.”

“Why has no one tried it before?”

The trill of his R’s was heavenly. Spanish? Portuguese? Something Mediterranean? Mel raised and lowered a shoulder.

“The extraction of deuterium would be a complicated process to master.”

“But you could do it?”

She leaned back and met his icy eyes. Her confidence crackled along her nerve endings.

“But I could do it.”

To her surprise and delight, Mendoza cracked a lopsided grin that could only be described as dashing. He looked over the papers and, as his gaze moved lazily from the diagrams to her face, Mel had the strong impression she was being sussed out. Miranda had her fingers laced on the table and she watched Mendoza out of the corner of her eye. There was a glimmer behind her neutral expression, something thoughtful. The meeting went on: they asked more questions, Mel detailed more about her research. When she finished Miranda nodded slowly and gestured to the materials on the table.

“This is excellent work.”

It never stopped feeling marvelous, hearing those words. She knew her work was solid; it just felt good to know that someone like Miranda agreed.

“Thank you.”

Mendoza’s pocket buzzed, sending a little fissure through the atmosphere. He fished a phone out and glanced at it.

“Looks like I must duck out a bit earlier than planned,” he said, standing and nodding to Miranda, “Let’s look at that MIT study soon. It was a pleasure, Dr. Isley.”

With a final lazy smile he turned and walked briskly out the glass doors. As soon as the sound of his shoes faded away Miranda turned to Mel with that Gotham Magazine smile.

“Sorry to spring that on you, Mel,” she went to a matching teak sideboard and poured two glasses of iced tea from a sweating glass pitcher, “we’ve had some very interesting developments on my end and this seemed too good to pass up.”

She handed Mel one of the glasses and it felt deliciously cool against her hands. Her whole body felt warm, as if she’d just run a marathon. The tea was lovely and floral and just slightly sweet.

“And Mr. Mendoza is one of these developments?”

“One of them. There is another, however. A rather compelling investing opportunity that is presenting itself.”

Miranda settled gracefully in her seat and leaned forward.

“Bruce Wayne.”

For one feeble moment Mel thought she was being told a bad joke. The tea suddenly left a bitter taste on her tongue. She set the glass down and put her hands in her lap.

“ _Bruce Wayne_ , Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes.”

All of the glorious marathon heat began to dwindle from her limbs, leaving an uncomfortable clamminess behind.

_Bruce Wayne._

_Bruce **fucking** Wayne. _

Bruce Wayne was the reason the first project ended, didn’t Miranda remember that? Mel sure as hell did. Mel sure as hell remembered being sideswiped at the 9am meeting where their project was unceremoniously terminated; remembered the shock and pain and anger all tangled in her guts as Bruce Wayne himself stood off to the side with his hands shoved into the pockets of his perfect suit. She remembered the rueful look on his handsome face, like a rich little boy who was apologizing from something he didn’t understand. Mel felt Miranda watching her so she scraped together a response.

“He’s...interested?”

“No, not yet,” She fiddled with a small piece of paper between her slender fingers, spinning it back and forth, “But I just watched a person-- who, rather like Bruce Wayne, is not easily persuaded-- become a convert in the glow of your brilliance.”

Some day, Mel told herself, she would learn to understand Miranda Tate. Or if not understand at least anticipate, even a little. In the meantime she would just have to keep sitting here trying to look cool and collected and ignore the lump that formed in her throat.

She was smart as hell, a true beacon, and her brilliance glowed.

Miranda held the small square of paper across the table. It was a thick piece of card with elegant gold foil letters twisting across the front like vines.

“Can I convince you to attend a charity ball?”

\--

The medicine chest was from an apothecary in Shanghai though the lacquered text was in a Bhutanese dialect. The front was covered in four rows of small square drawers; inside the second from the left on the third row was a burner phone, one of many dotted throughout the apartment. She dialed and walked through the silent hall to stand before the wide bay window as it rang.

_Once. Twice._

The connection clicked and though there were no words she knew by the warbled hiss that he was listening.

“It’s done. And yours?”

A clicking, whispering hum.

“The cat has her instructions.”

“Good.”

She pushed the curtain aside. The doctor was walking away down the street, the afternoon sun casting coppery warmth onto her hair.

“She's very bright, your lost little blossom.”

There was something sly in her tone that she did not bother to conceal. Something vulpine and deadly wrapped in mischief.

“We shall benefit from it.” Was all that he said in response.

“Hmm.” she let the curtain drop away, “Perhaps. I’ll let your puppet extend a full report.”

Without another word she ended the call and carried the phone to the kitchen. There she smashed it to dust with a hammer and threw the scraps into the fireplace.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello, hello, hello! Here it is, and only weeks and weeks later! As always, your kudos, comments, and follows are much appreciated.

Summerrain22, yer a gem! 

Kharisma Messam, yer a doll!

* * *

It had been exciting to enter a ball- not a _party,_ a _**ball**_ -alone. To pass the dazzling flashbulbs and walk into opulence: twinkling sheets of fairy lights, glittering jewels and sequins and velvets, golden platters laden with fruit and tartlets and caviar and whole fucking crabs, all interwoven with music from a seven piece orchestra. Something brushed her shoulder and when she looked up there were literal rose petals raining from the balcony overhead. Mel caught one and rubbed it between her fingers. It was fresh and unwaxed. This ball was like nothing she'd ever seen.

_Next fucking level._

That had been close to two hours ago and as the shock of the extravagance wore off Mel was beginning to get antsy and, in full honesty, a little bored. She'd perked up twenty minutes earlier when Miranda had glided by in a swirl of sparkling red, looking for some kind of cue that the moment had arrived. But Miranda just threw her a wink and mouthed ' _not here yet_ '. Mel had smiled and tried not to wilt. _Where the hell was Bruce Wayne?_ She glanced testily at the frosty glasses of wine set out on wide trays; she didn't want to feel fuzzy when the time came to give their pitch. She had a job to do.

Her brilliance needed to glow. She had to be a beacon.

An older man with a slightly too tight cummerbund waltzed by with his much younger date; he gave Mel a second glance before turning hurriedly back to his irritated dance partner. Mel felt a smug little twinge and adjusted her skirt casually. Her gown was made entirely of dark green silk, the back exquisitely low and the straps thin as spider's silk. There was a coterie of slinky black dresses in her closet that would've served just fine, but when she saw the flash of emerald in a window on Livingston Street Mel knew nothing else would do. She felt hot as hell and, as always, she revelled in the knowledge. She glanced at the wine again. _What the hell,_ one glass couldn't hurt. She crossed to the bar while scanning the caterers. Were the folks who worked charity balls the tupperware type?

"Tsk, tsk. You don't call, you don't write."

The horribly familiar voice was like oily fingers scratching a slimy path down a chalkboard. Its owner leaned against the catering table in front of her and there was nothing she could've done to stop the scowl leaking across her face. _She was fucking smart as hell, had never looked better than tonight, and would be absolutely damned before she gave another second of her time to Philip fucking Stryver._ As Mel turned away he reached out and closed his fingers around her elbow.

"Now, _hold_ on. Don't be like that."

She wished he'd been rough, wished his hand felt clammy or sweaty, wished for something that would confirm a subhuman status. His hold was limp and dry and when she stopped moving he pulled it away. He smiled his lopsided smile.

"How're things?"

"Uh, _fabulous_."

It was difficult to weave the subtext of _you're a troll and everyone knows it_ into a single word, but Mel thought she managed it decently. Stryver ignored the sarcasm dripping from her tone, giving her a slow once over and grabbing a crab leg from an overstuffed platter.

"Nice dress. Whose date are you this time?"

"I didn't bring one. Miranda Tate invited me."

The answer visibly threw him and she basked in his confusion and discomfort. He'd asked the perfect question, scummy sycophant that he was. His dark lizard eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he looked her over again, sussing, searching, plotting; she easily predicted his next move. Stryver cracked the crab leg and munched the meat noisily. She waited and, sure enough, his look became sympathetic and evil.

_Some people just have patterns_.

"You know, I really gave you some golden advice before," he sighed and sucked crab juice from his fingers, "I'm starting to think that _girls_ like you really can't take a hint."

"I was going to say the same about _boys_ like you."

"Dr. Isley?"

Nothing but the surprise of hearing her name rolling along that accent would've made her turn and, frankly, Mel was disappointed to be interrupted. The furious look on Stryver's face was worth its weight in oily gold and made her skin tingle with wicked glee.

"Mr. Mendoza!"

Ander Mendoza strolled towards her looking effortlessly sharp in a charcoal gray suit and a pair of gleaming black oxfords. Mel allowed her disappointment to drop away and she extended a hand with a smile.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you here."

Mendoza's handshake was as firm and warm as she remembered. The opposite of subhuman; _superhuman_ , perhaps. Stryver huffed loudly over her shoulder and the glance she deigned to give him was both triumphant and bored. His slash of a mouth was a line but Mel was surprised to see the outrage fading from his face. She looked around. Mendoza stared at him evenly with no discernible expression; Stryver flicked his eyes between them once, twice, and then- to her shock -spun on his heel and walked away. No argument, no insults, no nothing. Before he'd turned his back, disappearing with his cloud of unpleasantness and crab smell, there was something exceptionally strange in the look he gave Mendoza.

"Goodness, he did _not_ like you. What did you do to him?"

He flashed that grin that made her knees go weak and rubbed a thumb over his beard.

"Some people can't handle the power of these baby blues."

The sentence was punctuated with a devastating wink and Mel laughed, filing the odd encounter away in her mind and smoothing her silky neckline. Was there anything better than running into a handsome acquaintance when dressed to the damn nines? She didn't think so. He held out an arm as the lively music transitioned.

"Is your dance card open?"

She hesitated for only half a second. Technically she had a job to do and it was not dancing with mysterious businessmen, but just then a flurry of rose petals floated down around them and- _goddammit_ -she was a sucker for a well tailored suit.

"Wide open."

He led her out to the dance floor and Mel placed her fingers delicately on the spot between his shoulder and neck. There was something so...so...old Hollywood, or old world, or old _something_ about the whole thing: a handsome almost stranger swooping in to rescue her at a ball, engaging in witty repartee, taking his arm to waltz the night away. It was intoxicating.

"So, _Mendoza_ ," she said coyly, channeling her inner Lauren Bacall, "is that Spanish?"

Their swaying had turned her halfway around and she noticed Miranda on the balcony above deep in conversation. Mendoza's thumb came to rest against the exposed skin of her lower back.

"Habla usted español?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

_Oof._

The combination was both distracting and delicious and she scrambled for a moment to recall her high school Spanish.

"Solo un poco," she began slowly, "y no muy bien."

"Yo también." He gave her a little dip, "I'm Basque."

She laughed in surprise and delight. _Clever fucker_. It was amazing to think she'd nearly been bored ten minutes ago.

"And what exactly do you do?"

He shrugged.

"Little of this, little of that."

"Hmm, alright."

Mel made a point of considering him thoroughly.

"Business world, I'm assuming," she cocked her head when he grinned, "Investing? Definitely something new and up and coming."

"What was your clue?"

"Old money wouldn't have asked a lowly scientist to dance."

" _Botanist._ "

It shouldn't have mattered but his adjustment of her words sat warm and pleasant in her belly. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Yes, a botanist."

"But," he supplied, "working as a _chemist._ "

Over his shoulder a false bird-of-paradise, _heliconia solomonensis_ , hung placidly from an elaborate vase. She stared at the pointed leaves for a moment and felt a small tug of sadness.

"Something like that."

"How does that work?"

Did he actually want to know? Mel considered Mendoza once more, scanning his face and feeling almost unsure. The question was simple enough, was genuine enough. He gazed back levelly. She felt oddly as though she were on the edge of a precipice; the pad of his thumb against her skin felt warm.

"Ever been to Gotham Library?"

He looked surprised at the question, which was fair. He shook his head.

"No."

She could feel her pulse in her throat even though her heart was not racing. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the song had ended and a new one had begun. Neither of them acknowledged it.

"I read that millions of people visit every year just to look. Not to find a favorite story, not smell that book page smell...just to be a tourist in a space with almost limitless dimension and content. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"Because it's a beautiful building. Because it's worthwhile to look at, to admire the facade, to snap a picture and throw it up on social media. And, hey, there is nothing wrong with being beautiful, but that doesn't mean they're not missing the point."

"In this analogy," Mendoza ventured thoughtfully, "the books are chemicals and the library all flora, and both of them…misunderstood?"

A short, breathless laugh tumbled from her mouth.

"It's even more complex than that."

The new song was slower and more fluid and its calmness allowed her space to think, for which Mel was grateful.

"Plants produce compounds called phytochemicals. They can play a role in growth or defense against competitors, pathogens, or predators."

He nodded.

"Like squid ink and porcupine quills."

"Sort of," she replied, "but they are not exclusively defensive. They can be colors, flavors, smells; they can be poison or offer pain relief."

Mel tilted her head towards the elaborate vase.

"The heliconia over your shoulder flourishes in full sun and relies on hummingbirds for pollination. But it developed specific chemical growing patterns in its flowers so they open at night."

Mendoza frowned ever so slightly.

"Why?"

His pale eyes flickered over the bright red petals as if they would give him the answer. Her pulse throbbed and the warmth in her belly began to burn just as it had on that park bench in the spring. Mel's fingers, which had rested softly on his shoulder, stretched and blossomed across the top of his back.

"Bats, Mr. Mendoza. They have a backup plan."

He did not respond immediately, instead watching Mel's face with a strange expression that was somewhere between interest and confusion. Her stomach dropped an inch; she'd hoped for something else, something more. Warding off the creeping sense of awkwardness, she tipped her chin at the heliconia once more.

"Do you suppose that's why it was picked to be in that corner?"

"No. It was picked because it's beautiful."

Mendoza smiled softly. His eyes, however, did not; they _probed_.

"Like the library." He added.

She tried to hold his gaze but its glacial intensity was so piercing that Mel had to look away, which embarrassed her further. Somewhere in the back of her mind the encounter with Stryver surfaced once more.

"I used to think it was just science, but it's not." The burning hole was back in full force and Mel's stomach clenched around it. "Science is just a focus for it, a lens. It is part of the natural system. It has a purpose and a function. It, whatever you want to call it, endures and adjusts and grows stronger."

"So your attraction to clean energy was perhaps less to do with bettering mankind and more to do with...changing the world?"

The words teased gently and she felt relief as the edge started to melt off of the conversation. She still wasn't quite ready to meet his eyes once again. Mel raised and lowered a shoulder.

"Wouldn't have pegged you for such an absolutist, Mr. Mendoza."

"So that's not it?"

"Not quite."

The orchestra played the final notes of the song. Mel had no idea how many had played since they first walked out on the dance floor, but they came to stillness now. Mendoza tilted his head down towards her; a secretive, private little gesture. His voice was curious.

"What is it you want?"

_She was fucking smart as hell, had never looked better than tonight, and didn't owe anyone anything._

She looked up at him.

"Credit where credit is due."

There was a half second pause and then the dashing grin that made his face appear so handsome returned. He chuckled and offered Mel his arm and they slipped back into pleasant and meaningless conversation as they walked off the dance floor. In that half second, however, she figured out what she'd seen partially concealed on Stryver's face.

_Fear._

Philip Stryver was terrified of Ander Mendoza. What she did not know was _why_.

-

The grey suit felt soft and light and- though very unlike his usual armor -it had played its part effectively. It was long past midnight now and he stood silently by the large bay windows, perfectly equidistant from the room's other two occupants.

"I imagine you're quite pleased."

Miranda Tate had dark blue eyes the precise color of the open ocean. Unfathomable, unreachable; in those depths a man was at the mercy of the waves or whatever roiled deep below. They caught the light from the fireplace, flashing as she spoke. The fire glinted also on the metal tubing of Bane's mask as he sat upon an ottoman, dwarfing it with his massive form. He wove a length of cord between his fingers.

"We prepared for several eventualities."

"The cat, however, was ideally placed."

Miranda Tate turned to Barsad then and regarded him with coolness.

"What serendipitous timing."

He blinked but did not reply. His timing had been impeccable because that had been the directive: remain out of sight until Bruce Wayne arrived, alert the cat, and remove the doctor as a potential target. He was no stranger to this work. Every man under his command was a soldier: infantry, artillery, explosives- each of them proficient and efficient. There was no need for another sniper because he did not miss. _Aim, shoot, move forward_. Her army, the League as they called themselves, wove in seamlessly with his men but they were something else entirely. And they were part of Bane somehow, just as Bane was part of the mercenary brotherhood. Barsad had never been asked to join the League and did not want to. He could work alongside them on a _mission_ , but he did not want a _cause._ Bane twisted the cord; looping, threading, weaving.

"Wayne made a selection." his tone was even, as ever. "The cat was successful and our work will continue."

"And your doctor?"

"There is use in maintaining her."

In the lingering moment of silence that followed, her anger and suspicion hovered in the air like foul smoke. The woman was called Miranda Tate but it was not her true name. It was a persona, a role to be performed within the stage play of this objective. It was their mission, his mission, Bane's mission, but somehow Barsad knew it all truly belonged to her. When the ocean colored eyes landed back on him Barsad's face remained impassive. If she had not known about his orders tonight, if they had come from Bane alone, it did not matter. He had entered the arrangement as Bane's man. From this point onwards it would never be forgotten where his allegiance lay. He took pride in this and also knew he would need to be vigilant. The tides were shifting. She turned away from him; when she spoke her smile was small and malicious and her voice soft.

" _A dainty plant...that creepeth o'er ruins old._ "

Bane looked up then. Their eyes glittered as they met and Barsad looked away rather than attempting to discern the meaning in their shared looks. He did not wish to know. Barsad was not a revolutionary, not a zealot, not driven by anything other than a will to live simply. _Aim, shoot, move forward_. His life had forward motion always; he had a purpose. Bane saw this, did not question this, utilized this. They were brothers. But Bane was not a simple man. After several long moments, the woman called Miranda Tate glided silently out of the room and the door shut with a snap. Barsad turned back to his commander.

"It is wise to keep the doctor. Pavel wrote a paper but she built the machine."

The mask crackled quietly and Bane nodded, the stillness of his hands transmitting a state of deep thought. Barsad didn't like much of anyone. He didn't like Miranda Tate; didn't trust Miranda Tate. He considered the other woman, the botanist in the green silk dress who spoke of her work with certainty and directness. The doctor with the lovely dark eyes with the flecks of green within them. Her loveliness was flecked through with a purpose. If only for this reason, Barsad felt he did not mind the doctor. _A green snake in green grass_ , the proverb went. Danger hiding in plain sight. She had given him no reason to think she was not dangerous but, fortunately, he did not need to trust her. What he needed to trust was that the work would be done and he felt that to be true.

"She believes in her work."

His words awakened Bane from his meditation. The heavy fingers began their delicate task once more.

"Oh? And from where does this belief derive?"

Barsad stepped closer to the fire. They were soldiers, a commander and his lieutenant, but two men could always speak candidly beside a fire. That was his belief, anyway.

"She is neither an optimist nor a radical."

He thought of the meeting in the sun room, the conversation while they danced. Intelligence and apathy, flirtation and bitterness; indulgence and intensity and sadness and artifice. He considered her words: _credit where credit is due_. The notion itself was quite simple though her reasoning, and her character, were less so. Finally, Barsad shook his head.

"I don't know where it comes from."

"A _void_ , perhaps."

The response came smoothly and Bane's voice was low, dark, and pleasant. Barsad made no reply. They were still for a time as the fire crackled and danced. In Zimbabwe there is a place where, deep in the jungle, the trees suddenly fall away and there is darkness. An antechamber of limestone filled with cobalt blue water, an entryway to a web of subterranean tunnels: a cave, a pit, something ancient and filled with endless secrecy. Bane was like this, in a way. His arrival stark and without ceremony, his existence massive, and his inner workings unknowable. When Barsad had stood and stared into the place where the light disappeared a tremor had gone up his spine. Nothing, not money nor diamonds nor anything tangible in heaven or earth, would convince him to go inside. But he stood for a time on the shore and let the power of the place wash over him. At this distance it was a marvel to behold and, though a simple man he was, he could still appreciate marvels. _Ululwane ubhalu,_ they called it. _The Bat Cave_.

* * *

xo, trppnwtz


	5. Chapter 5

And we're back! I don't know why I got so stuck on this chapter, but I really truly did. Hopefully moving forward I'll be able to move through this story a bit quicker. As always, your reviews, kudos, thoughts and time are all greatly appreciated.

I wish all of you good health, safety, and the courage/power/willingness keep fighting the good fights! 

* * *

**Aug 30, 1:17pm** \-  _ Meeting Invitation _ : Board Presentation

_ Meeting invitation to: m.isley@we.com _

**Board Presentation**

_ (view on WE calendar) _

_ Date: Fri, Sept 1st _

_ Time: 11:00am _

_ Location: Wayne Tower Boardroom - Floor 75, Suite 0012 _

_ Notes: You’ll need a speciality clearance badge to access the elevator. I’ll leave your name at the front desk and they will be able to get you set up. Hope you’re well!  _

  * _M_



_ Event creator: Miranda Tate (m.tate@we.com) _

The receptionist gave her ID a dubious and narrow eyed examination. Mel felt the impulse to adopt a non-threatening, halfway apologetic smile-- the expected expression when you’re being sized up-- but beacons never smiled apologetically so she willed her face blank. It must be nice, she brooded cooly, to be the gatekeeper to Wayne Tower. The troll beneath a bridge they had not built. But it was nicer to have had her toll paid by Miranda Tate and to continue past reception to the boardroom. Today was the day. She studied her own fingers as they rested on the smooth desk. Today was  _ her _ day. Beacons owned their space. 

She was smart as hell, had her name on a list, and didn’t owe anyone anything. 

Mel shifted her purse and glanced around the lobby. Everything was made of marble; the floors, the walls,  _ hell, _ the reception desk was an elegant combination of black and white stone. A sheet of towering windows arched over the space creating the feel of a sort of atrium. There was a long row of arrow bamboo,  _ pseudosasa japonica _ , potted by the elevators. To Mel’s eyes it looked perplexed, like a fish that had been plucked from the open ocean and plopped into a tank. She lingered on it for a moment but found she had to look away.  A young man was leaning against the unforgiving marble. They had reached the front desk at the same moment a few minutes earlier but he had stepped back at once.

“Please,” he’d said, gesturing her forward, “ladies first.”

He was fiddling with something in his hands-- a wallet? A phone?-- absentmindedly but not impatiently. When she met his glance he nodded; he had an open, friendly face and an inexpensive jacket.

“You a board member?” 

When he spoke his accent was quintessential working class Gotham, the vowels wide and straightforward. His demeanour was a direct contrast to the disinterested wealth of the lobby but, unlike the arrow bamboo, he seemed entirely unbothered. The receptionist was still clacking away on their keyboard so Mel took the bait.

“No, I’m making a presentation.”

The well worn folder that had housed her notes had been replaced by a neat binder; she held it up and the young man nodded again as he continued to twist the object between his fingers.

“Got it. But hey,” he shrugged, “presentations are big stuff!”

He was no  _ pseudosasa japonica  _ and certainly no  _ victoria amazonica _ ; no massive floating water plant somewhere deep in the Amazon. He’d sprouted up from a bulb and would be content in a field, in a garden, or by a park bench. A smile twitched the corner of Mel’s lips. People could call him an Easter lily until they were blue in the face and he would just turn his unbothered daffodil petals towards the sun. 

“Miss Isley, here’s your badge.” The receptionist’s voice pushed aside her floral musings; they handed over both her ID and a neat plastic tag with the word  _ VISITOR _ screaming across the front. “It's temporary and the clearance will automatically shut off today at 5pm.” 

Feeling that statement didn’t warrant an exuberant show of thanks, Mel exchanged a curt nod and clipped the badge to her waistband. As she turned away towards the elevators the young man called after her in his brassy Gotham City voice.

“Hey!” she looked back and he threw a thumbs up her way, “Knock ‘em dead!”

She grinned and returned the gesture. There was something enviable about being a daffodil in a world full of bamboo and lilies; to be unruffled and warm and authentic in this shiny black and white room. The thought settled in the back of her brain as she entered the elevator and used her temporary badge to select the boardroom floor. As the doors slid shut they framed the scene that began at the reception desk. The daffodil man stepped forward and flipped open the much twiddled object in his hand: a badge.

“Hey there. Detective Blake, Gotham PD. I’m hoping to speak to someone about John Daggett--”

The doors slithered snugly together and the elevator began its ascent. The interior was mirrored from floor to ceiling, allowing Mel to watch the bewilderment register on her face and then melt into a delighted little smile.  _ Holy crap _ , the police were looking for John Daggett. Filthy rich slimy turtleneck wearing asshat John Daggett. Meanwhile she was about to walk into the Wayne Enterprises boardroom with a cutting-edge presentation wearing a perfect silk blouse and new black pumps. It was like she was living in a dream.  _ Today was her day. _

She stared at herself in the mirrors, turning her head to take in every angle. What did people do when they made it big? Write a book? There would be more work, of course, maybe better work. Maybe an interview in Gotham Magazine, something puffy and complimentary with her photo beneath a bird of paradise palm. Mel closed her eyes for a moment and revelled in the idea while slowly running her fingers through her hair. She tingled; she fluttered. Then she waved the glorious thoughts aside and allowed her mind to flood with physics and statistics of leaf water content.  _ Today was her day _ .

An expensive projector-- the newest model released by Wayne Tech earlier in the year-- sat at the far end of the long table and Mel went to it and got herself organized. She glanced at the clock as she opened her binder: 10:51am. Most of the board members were milling about, chatting with one another or scrolling on their phones or looking over curiously as she settled. Miranda wasn't there yet but she felt another set of familiar eyes land on her, as she knew they would. Mel ignored them and casually typed the pin into her tablet. Ed materialized at her side. 

“What’re you doing here?”

She smiled and focused her attention on the screen. Her WE inbox had been steadily filling with invitations since their last date, invitations she had been far too busy and important to accept. It was driving him crazy. She sighed and deigned to give him a glance.

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait and see.”

His grin pulled into a clever one sided smirk that she both hated and enjoyed. He was wearing a decent suit and navy tie;  _ why did men always default to blue _ ? 

“Vaucluse, tonight at 8pm. What do you say, Doctor?”

Mel looked back at her tablet and  thought for a moment before suddenly remembering about the cop in the lobby. Ed waited at her side while she ignored him and quickly scanned the room; Daggett was not there. She felt a small tug of glee and wondered if he was already on the run, or being dragged out of the front doors in handcuffs, or had been eaten by escaped crocodiles or spontaneous combusted. She flicked her hair over her shoulder.

“Depends. What’s on their top shelf?”

“Whatever you want.”

It was 10:54am. Mel closed her binder thoughtfully and looked up at Ed. She could feel him registering every little movement she made with rapt attention and the knowledge made her feel another little twinge. He still wasn’t her type-- he was no Ander Mendoza --but how long had it been since she’d let someone clever and ambitious unbutton her blouse? Too long,  _ much _ too long if Ed Nygma was managing to push her buttons this morning. On  _ her _ day. She raised and lowered her shoulder.

“Fine.”

There was a shift in the room as folks began taking their seats. 10:55am. Ed gave a begrudging look over his shoulder at the clock and straightened his jacket. Before he moved away he raised an eyebrow.

“What can you keep after giving it to someone?”

Mel rolled her eyes but smiled still. She was smart as hell, exuded the very essence of a modern scientist, and deserved an expensive cocktail and maybe some enthusiastic sex.

“A promise?”

Ed’s face blossomed into a full grin. He opened his mouth to respond as the doors suddenly flew open and men streamed into the room. Mel had never really been a worrier but, from time to time, had experienced a stressful dream on the night before a big event. She’d awoken this morning feeling rested and wonderfully self-assured; now, reflecting on the events of the day, she wondered if she might still be asleep. The conversation with the daffodil man who was actually a police officer, John Daggett missing and wanted, exchanging riddles with Ed moments before her presentation, and now all of these men with armor on their bodies and guns in their hands. She blinked. She waited to wake up. She blinked again.  _ Today was her day. _ The air in the room hung like fog as board members froze or cried out or darted under the table or for their phones.

“Would the good people of the board please take their seats?”

The voice was cordial and decisive as it crackled over the sound of massive footsteps. He sauntered across the threshold and in a dream Mel might’ve taken a moment to puzzle at the grace of the behemoth, this giant with whom she’d chatted about music, the terrorist called Bane. This was not a dream. She had seen the news coverage from the stock exchange. She had seen the CCTV footage, ten seconds of grainy video that the news anchor had warned may “disturb sensitive viewers”. As she sat on her couch, surrounded by the comfort of philodendron leaves, she’d decided the most frightening part had not been watching him brutalize the security staff; the most frightening part had been realizing she’d stood ten feet away from that power. That she'd spoken with it, made eye contact, maybe made it smile. The memory faded and now, as she sat perfectly still across the room from him once again, nothing frightened her more than the possibility that those predator eyes would recognize her. 

There was a general commotion as people scrambled for chairs and armed soldiers swarmed to flank doors, the table, and their commander-- there was absolutely no doubt that this was what Bane was--and in it Mel clutched her binder in her lap and lowered her chin, allowing her hair to fall across her face. The scuffling of feet and chair legs faded into silence.

“Thank you.”

His voice came from the top of the table at the opposite end from her seat. Someone whimpered but otherwise the room was utterly still. Mel’s hands shook ever so slightly as adrenaline and a wild tangle of emotions surged through her veins. This was not a dream. It was real and was happening today of all days. On _ her  _ day. She almost looked up, almost did something; a twitch, a shiver, a sniffle. Her knuckles turned white and she clenched her brain and lungs and her teeth and then she let it all drop away and became as small and uninteresting as possible. She was a beacon; beacons did not die at moments like this.

Miranda’s voice echoed through the silence as she entered the boardroom.

“...Keeping the board in the dark was not one of them--”

“How good of you to join us, Chair. President.”

Mel looked up through her eyelashes despite her better judgement and watched the exchange. Her hands had stopped shaking but now they were clammy and sticking to the vinyl cover of her binder. Miranda looked so shocked, so unlike herself, yet still so gorgeous. Mel would’ve bet that she was one of those people who looked beautiful when they cried. 

“All I need now is one ordinary board member. Mr. Fox, would you like to nominate?” 

Somehow through her pingponging thoughts she understood that Bane was going, going and taking people with him. Chair, President, and-- _ what had he just said? _ \-- one ordinary board member. She felt almost lightheaded with a sense of dirty, sweaty, slightly guilty relief. She would get out of this in just a moment, the soldiers were leaving with their prisoners; she had truly been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She would get out of this. She would get out of here and live to be a beacon. She would get out. It could still be her day.

“And an escort for Dr. Isley, of course.” 

As a child Mel had been a decent student: intelligent, well-liked, essentially behaved. Prone to laziness and small acts of stubborn defiance and zoning out when the lesson was not presented in a way that she preferred. Once--though this had hardly been the first or last time-- she had been scrawling an elaborate doodle in the margin of her notebook when she suddenly felt the hovering silence, the focus in her direction, and the realization that her name had been spoken aloud some moments earlier. When she looked up it was to see the entire classroom watching her with a wide range of expressions: her teacher had been annoyed, her classmates impatient or giggling.

_ And an escort for Dr. Isley, of course. _

Mel raised her head now and took in the boardroom, her terror mixed with a peculiar sense of dejavu. They all stared in her direction with horror and relief and confusion and sadness, but they faded beneath the huge presence by the door; the presence that hissed and pierced her with mechanical intensity, the presence that she had thought would remain a creeping memory in the past. From behind the twisting black and silver mask Bane looked straight into her face; the smile that she’d once seen in his eyes replaced by a bored, tactical iciness. He turned and walked out of the room. 

_ Why. _

Someone grabbed her arm roughly and she was pulled from her chair, all but dragged along as she struggled to find her stilettoed footing. Miranda threw her a horrified look as she was pushed ahead. The soldier let go of her arm and then Mel felt something hard and cold bump into her hip and she knew it was the gun. It occurred to her that she had never been this close to a gun before. Her stomach ached. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to be shot. She tried to imagine she was somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t a dark hole in the Wayne Enterprises basement or the darker tunnel beneath.  _ It was her day _ . There came a moment where Mel paused. She was smart as hell. She was a scientist. Her evidence must be collected empirically. 

_ Observation, Induction, Deduction, Testing, Evaluation. _

Observations: 

  1. beneath Wayne Enterprises there is subterranean tunnel network 
    1. unknown armed militia set up in tunnel network  

  2. gaunt man with a rumpled sweater 
    1. man is Dr. Pavel, recognizable from the published paper that had ended the original reactor project
    2. Dr. Pavel is dead, plane crash many months earlier  
  

  3. explosion = discovery of reactor intact, operational, hidden  

    1. reactor was destroyed, paperwork exists detailing its dismantling  
  

  4. soldier standing watch over Mel Isley is Ander Mendoza
    1. n/a



Inductions:

  1. n/a
  2. n/a
  3. n/a
  4. n/a
  5. n/a



Deductions:

    1. This is a dream
    2. This is a dream
    3. This is a dream
    4. This is a dream
    5. This is a dream
    6. This is a dream
    7. This is a dream
    8. This is a dream
    9. _This was her day_
    10. This is a dream



\--

Mel sat against a wall. She wanted to chide herself for not correctly concluding her hypothesis but couldn't muster the effort. The floor was made of cold tile and she felt goosebumps rise on her arms; she traced their shape with her mind because the task made more sense than underground armies, explosions that rattled the windows, and being locked in a spare bedroom in John Daggett’s empty penthouse--except it hadn't been empty. As she’d been pulled through the apartment she’d seen sleeping bags and cots and trash and guns, so many guns, littered throughout the elegant rooms and she felt certain that the space no longer belonged to Daggett. In the streets far below she could hear rumbling and screaming, screeching tires and gunshots. The sun was shining. An areca palm,  _ dypsis lutescens _ , sat in a west facing window. The spot was ideal for light but the small yellow spots on its lower fronds indicated a potassium deficiency. She wondered if she should cry; considered the option for a time, tried hard to feel pain and fear and sadness. Nothing happened.

_ What now? _

She didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway so when the door snapped open she hadn’t had time to react. Instead Mel sat on the floor like a child and stared as Miranda Tate perched on the bed in front of her; a slight tousling of her hair was the only indicator that she was not sitting comfortably in her perfect sunroom. Mel felt her throat tighten.

“Are you alright?”

Miranda didn’t reply, scanning Mel’s face with her dark blue eyes. Information came crashing into Mel’s mind like a wave. Miranda appeared uninjured. They were both still alive. There were no soldiers in sight.  _ The door was standing open _ . She nearly toppled over.

“Mir-- _ the door _ ! How did you get in here, we need to go  _ now _ ! We need to go before they--”

The initial wave of information had since passed but a steady trickle continued. Mel rose shakily to her feet and stared at the open door. The trickle was not cool and clear like water. It was thick and creeping and without temperature. Miranda watched her calmly from her seat on the bed. Mel knew then. Although she did not  _ know _ , not exactly, not in any entirety or with any depth. But she knew. There was sweat on her upper lip and on her back. She leaned against the window sill, unable to peel her gaze from the open door.

“There wasn’t any plan to restart the clean energy project.” 

Mel couldn’t look at the other woman, couldn’t handle what she might inevitably see when she did. From the corner of her eye she saw her shake her head. She looked away, stared out the window into the world that rumbled and screeched. She felt betrayed. She felt stupid.

“What was the point?”

Miranda sighed and Mel flinched. The coolness of this demeanor in the body of someone she’d thought she’d known was physically painful.

“Dr. Pavel based his findings on theory,” began not-Miranda, “You provided us with facts. And, of course, if he couldn’t actually perform in the moment…”

She shrugged and Mel flashed on the first moment she’d been called a beacon. That her brilliance glowed. 

“So I was a back up plan.”

“You could call it that if you want.”

Once, what seemed like many thousands of years ago, she had nearly left her clutch in this penthouse and it had made her cry. What a different place her world was today, on a day that should have been hers. She would not cry here. She would never cry again. Mel felt hazy and angry and completely empty and she looked over and hoped some of it would leak out of her eyes and choke not-Miranda. But all she saw was a completely different person, still lovely, still clever, but ice cold and dangerous and inhuman.

“So what now?”

“That depends, Mel.”

The reply was spoken softly, almost mischievously, wrapping around her name like a serpent. She knew not-Miranda wanted her to ask ‘on what?’ but she couldn’t-- she  _ wouldn’t _ \-- so she looked back out the window. It had become an overcast autumn afternoon; somewhere nearby a car alarm began blaring. Suddenly not-Miranda was at her side and, in a single graceful flourish of wool coat and sweet perfume, she threw open the window. The frigid wind hit Mel’s face, gnawing cruelly at her cheeks.

“Jump.” 

Mel looked down twenty-odd stories to the street and felt nauseous and horrified. She stumbled back and tried to recover her breath while not-Miranda’s face flashed a challenge.

“If you want to, this is your choice.” 

Mel frantically shook her head.

“No, I don’t want to jump, are you crazy??”

Not-Miranda gripped her elbow and leaned in close, her expression curious and deadly. The frozen wind whistled and wove through her hair.

“Why not?” 

Mel yanked herself away, her knees bumping against the side of the bed as she fumbled through fear and confusion for a response.

“W-what the  _ fuck _ are you talking about?” 

Through the sound of chaos on the wind there came a soft hiss, a warbling machine sound from the hallway behind Mel. Familiar cold-- cold that was somehow more frightening than the open window --slithered up her spine. She turned and saw Bane, his massive form filling the door frame. The motorcycle jacket was gone and had been replaced by a long, worn leather coat; with it the guise of the modern terrorist vanishing and replaced by something ancient and strange and absolutely terrifying. He took in the scene, eyes moving from not-Miranda to Mel with an analytical interest, all the while his breath snaking between them like a mechanical needle. Not-Miranda suddenly laughed and shook her head. She smiled at Mel and it chilled her insides.

“You’re rather brilliant, you know.” She placed a hand on Mel’s cheek and leaned in close. For half a second Mel was sure she was going to kiss her; instead not-Miranda peered into Mel’s eyes, her fingers clenching painfully around her chin, and murmured, “Nearly as brilliant as you are scorned by those who you consider your masters.”

Mel tried to yank her face away but not-Miranda’s fingers were frighteningly strong. She wrenched backwards and managed to free herself. Bane stood like stone, watching.

“Like you?” 

Mel tried to spit out the words with as much venom as she could muster. They came out in a gasp instead. Not-Miranda merely shrugged.

“Not anymore. You made your choice.” 

She left the room without so much as a glance back. ‘She had made her choice?’ Mel flickered between the open window and the giant. Her heart pounded in her throat.  _ What had been her choice?  _ Bane did not move several, horrifying moments; he stood like a mountain and watched her with an air of patience. Maybe expectation? Mel didn’t know and couldn’t know with so many clues hidden beneath the twist of metal and mesh. Finally she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut but unable to block the sound of his breath from her ears. 

A moment passed.

The door clicked as it locked. His footsteps were heavy as they moved away down the hall.

* * *

xo, trppnwtz


	6. Chapter 6

**TRIGGER WARNING** : Violence, non-consensual touching, non-consensual administering of drugs.

Let's see how long I can see riding this creative energy! I sincerely appreciate all of the views, the saves, all of your kind words. Stay safe, stay healthy, and tell me what you think.

-

It would be a long time before Mel would see the person called Miranda Tate again, and that suited her just fine. After the giant disappeared behind the locked door she was left alone. She stood and watched the sun lower and set, watched the lights all over Gotham go out, listened to the sounds of madness blossoming across the dark cityscape. At some point it all became too much and she dropped to her hands and knees, curling into the corner, tugging at the door she knew was locked. Like a caged animal she paced and noisily gulped down air until she was absolutely exhausted. Sleeping on the bed felt too vulnerable. She paced. She tried the door once again. She stared out of the window. Finally, with her body half beneath the bed, she dozed off on the floor. The sky was still dark when her eyes snapped open-- Hours later? Minutes? Seconds?-- and her skin was cold to the touch. The window stood open and the frigid night air had crept in to cocoon her. Mel crawled across the icy tile and shut it. This was her choice. She had made this choice.

She was smart as hell, felt tired and hungry and frozen, and had been so so so stupid.

She had believed herself to be a beacon.

\--

It was perhaps mid afternoon when the door swung open.

“Shit, look what's been hiding in here this whole time!”

Hearing his Gotham City accent gave her an odd little moment of warmth; she remembered the daffodil man. When the person crouched in front of her the warmth disappeared. His overall appearance was grimy, a flash of orange prison uniform peeking through his ill fitting armor. He took in her form with a greedy smile and fear swelled into Mel’s throat.

“Get her up, we’re on a schedule.”

A second man rasped from where he stood in the doorway, this one grim-faced and staring intently at the floor, out the window, anywhere but in her direction. _Grimy and Grim._

“Where am I going?”

It was the first thing she managed to gasp out. She didn’t want the answer, didn’t need the answer, but it was words and that was something. She felt a little flicker in her stomach, a flicker she remembered. A flicker that felt like Mel. Grimy wiggled his fingers as he snatched them around her arms, deliberately grazing her breasts and pressing against her with his body and breath. She arched away from the stench of sweat and sulfur. Grim had still not looked at her. She was smart as hell and some people just have patterns. _Good cop, bad cop-- good terrorist, bad terrorist?_

“Go on now, lil’ sugar daisy.”

Grimy pushed her forward, giggling or wheezing or both. Grim turned into the hall without a word. She saw her chance; she stepped forward and addressed him firmly.

“He’s making you look bad.”

The blow that followed was so surprising, so vicious and angry and quick that at first Mel couldn’t figure out what had happened. Then the pain bloomed across the back of her skull and she fell hard to her knees but Grim wasn’t finished. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back; she tried to cry out but he pressed the muzzle of a handgun roughly into her cheek, hard enough that she could taste blood.

“Your world is _over_ , do you understand?”

His fingers twisted more tightly into her hair and Mel choked on a gasp of pain. She could see his eyes now and knew that she had picked the wrong terrorist. They were savage and cruel and his expression dead and the combination made cold fear boil in her throbbing head. Grimy would kill her to justify his means; Grim would peel away her skin and relish it. She kicked and flailed and scratched.

“Get _off_ of m--”

The blow came down again, this time on her face, and she crumpled.

“Whoa, man, **_cool it_ **you’re going to break her fucking neck!”

Mel laid there while Grim and Grimy screamed at one another and wondered if anything was broken but she couldn’t tell through the pain and the blood in her eyes. She recognized the once decadent lobby of the John Daggett’s building when they dragged her through it, now scattered with detritus and the security station deserted. How had they gotten there? Dully, as she was roughly chucked into a car trunk, it occurred to her that she must've lost time. The lid slammed shut and she was engulfed in darkness. Once she’d believed herself to be a beacon. Now she lay in the close oily air, her lungs aching with every breath that echoed in her ears, and she pressed her bleeding cheek into the dirty carpet and curled into the darkness like a womb. She knew she was being taken to her death now, felt it in her bones. She thought of seven little philodendrons on a bright window sill and the sun on her shoulders. Across space and time a giant water lily shifted languidly towards her and she stretched out her fingers but could not reach.

A slice of light cut across her face and her heart clenched sorrowfully as she pulled the hand up to shield her eyes instead.

“What the **fuck** is _this_.”

“Delivering the prisoner, boss’s orders.”

“ ** _This_ **was part of your order??”

She recognized that voice though it now clipped along the plains of a different accent. It was like a cruel joke as she looked helplessly into the face of Ander Mendoza, his familiar form so unfamiliar wrapped in armor and weapons. His glacial eyes were blazing as they scanned her face and all she could do was stare back. Not-Mendoza closed his hands around her arms and she was pulled firmly but not painfully from the trunk. Mel slumped against him and her body remembered his and desperately sought comfort from something she knew. He hoisted an indifferent shoulder under her arm and they began to move.

“-- ** _told us_** to retrieve her from the apartment and bring her here--”

Footfalls echoed through the building and crashed like waves through her brain. When they stopped moving she dropped heavily onto the cold stone floor and not-Mendoza let her. To stay upright any longer seemed impossible, even for someone who’d once been a beacon. Her heart pulsed through her ribs and skull, thudding rhythmically in time with the sound of massive footsteps; through mats of hair she could see the boots coming closer, closer, and stopping in front of her.

“Barsad, what were the orders?’

“Retrieve Dr. Isley--”

“She tried to run and shit, seriously!”

Their explanation wove together with the warbling of Bane’s mask and pressed into her ears, tangling with the memory Grimy’s slithery touches and Grim’s violence. Through the fog of death, through her exhaustion and pain something new smoldered. Not new, truly, something she knew well because she had felt it so many times before: something bright and burning that clenched in her stomach. She tried to speak but wretched dryly instead. Mel pressed her trembling palms against the marble floor and tried to sit up. The hole blazed. At first all she saw was the hand as it reached down and she flinched. This was it, she supposed, and there was blood in her eyes that at least she wouldn’t have to watch it happen. The hand came to stillness in front of her face, palm up.

She waited. She waited.

She blinked; it was large, callused, a scar visible where the thumb met the immense palm, the nails short and square and oddly neat. Mel had never considered what the fingernails of a giant would look like. The fingers twitched once. In woeful astonishment she saw that the giant was beckoning, that he didn’t want to pulverize her while she was curled on the floor. With her palms still glued to the ground Mel pushed with all of her strength and made it to her knees. She did not want to take the offering, a final act of cordiality before annihilation; after all that had occurred she did not want to run or plead or change anything. She just wanted to make it to her own feet. She pushed, she heaved, she allowed misery to flood her being when it was clear she could not.

She would not cry. She would never cry again.

Bane closed his fingers around her entire hand and hoisted her to stand before him. Mel wobbled and felt like a husk. She closed her eyes to focus hard on staying upright, refusing to give any of them the satisfaction of watching her crumple once more. The mask hissed and crackled above her head; a point of startling heat flared beneath her chin as he used a single warm finger to tilt her face up towards his. The air in the room increased in weight and she could almost taste it, like the sour bitter sting of battery acid. Mel inhaled and finally raised her eyes to look at the behemoth that held her life in his hands. Bane watched her placidly from where he towered high above. His finger left her chin and Mel felt him twist her matted, bloody hair away from her face. The action was simple, so gentle, so sinister, and her throat closed as if he had strangled her.

“Incontinent, the void.”

_The void?_

_The void._

_Fuck._

Mel understood. Stale battery acid air filled her lungs as her throat unclenched. She would not die here, not yet. But she had not saved herself; she had made a choice a long time ago, a choice for the final word that had been a new beginning. Something chilly glimmered in his eyes, something jovial and lethal, then he blinked and fixed them over her shoulder. Her neck throbbed angrily as she turned and stared back at Grimy and Grim, at the bewilderment and outrage and wild fear that rolled off of each of them differently. Bane’s mask whirred.

“Third floor, end of the hall will serve nicely for Dr. Isley.”

Not-Mendoza materialized at her side, his indifferent shoulder taking control of her body once more for which Mel was grateful.

“See that her wounds are tended to.”

The hands that had once spun her so elegantly through a sparkling ballroom guided her away-- across the floor that was like an ocean, and not-Mendoza a boat. Grim and Grimy were left to tread water with the roiling dark clouds of a hurricane overhead.

“We brought her straight here!”

“Boss, I _swear_ to fucking god there--”

Then there were no more words, just a horrible cracking and squelching and the sound of wetness and bone and muscle hitting the floor. Screaming, pleading, a shrill shriek of fear before it was cut off by a wet ripping sound. Mel clung to the spot between not-Mendoza’s shoulder and neck; she did not turn around to look.

\--

There were just so many reasons not to accept an unknown pill from a strange man. So, so, so many reasons. There were entire classes, entire books, entire notions held communally across cultures based solely around this very idea. Her mother gave her a pinched expression.

“So why on earth did you swallow it?”

Mel shrugged. Because he’d handed it to her. Not-Mendoza grunted and held her shoulder still.

“ _That_ is not an excuse, Pammie. It was careless.”

Her mother turned away to pour a drink-- to ‘settle her nerves with Dutch courage’, as she liked to say. The bottle materialized out of the air in the small office at the end of the third floor hallway. It was odd; she was there sometimes, pacing, sipping, scowling elegantly. She hadn’t been there with Mel when not-Mendoza handed her the tablet, when she’d been scrubbing the blood from her face with a paper towel in a ladies room, when she had watched the pink water swirl down the drain. Mel slumped into the couch and stared at the stains from sweat and dirt and blood on her once white blouse.

“It was _silk_ ,” her mother groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, “nothing on God’s green earth will get those out.”

Mel shrugged again and not-Mendoza made an impatient gesture with the hand holding the surgical needle.

“Stop moving.”

The little pill had also been white, but white like powder or marble or snow. Her blouse was creamier like an egg shell in a nest of twigs or, or….cream? What else was the color of cream? Bones, maybe. Bones nestled in desert sand that had been bleached and warmed by the sun for days and months and years, not bones freshly ripped and shredded and bloody.

“Dear, you’re being very morbid.”

Mel ignored her half-present mother who only she could see and hear. There were no windows in the office. Everything inside was useful and uninteresting: a desk and chair, shelves packed with city code or manuals, a sensible couch. The snow white pill did the butterfly stroke through her belly as it clenched and growled; she tried to remember that last time she’d eaten anything but soon gave up. She stared at not-Mendoza’s face and he frowned as he stitched her forehead. He pulled the thread taunt and she felt her skin tug.

“What?”

His voice was gruff and unpleasant. Her mother clicked her tongue to express her distaste before vanishing once more with the musical tinkling of ice in a glass. Mel closed her eyes.

“Nothing.”

The needle wove back in though she felt no pain, no nothing, only the sensation of numbness and flesh pulling. Where the pain should’ve been there stood a void-- _a fucking **void** , where unappreciated music goes to and pain should be and where her choices went to set her goddamn life ablaze--_

“ _Language_ , Pammie!”

Mel opened her eyes and fixed them blearily on not-Mendoza.

“Does it feel good to lie?”

He blinked and stitched.

“I didn’t.”

“Truth by omission is lying, _Mr. Mendoza_.”

Her mother nodded her head supportively as she freshened up her drink. Not-Mendoza pulled the thread taunt once more.

“If you say so.”

He snipped the thread. Mel felt woozy or possibly just a dreary combination of exhaustion and hunger. She slid clumsily down to the lumpy cushions and curled into them, flooded by the sudden and profound urge to sleep forever. Somewhere nearby her mother sat at the piano and played _Ständchen_. Somewhere nearby the man who was not Mendoza gathered the medkit and moved to leave.

“Wait,” Mel’s voice was muffled by the fabric of the couch, “what's your name?”

The cadence of his footsteps wavered ever so slightly. The piano music adapted to match the new rhythm.

“Barsad.”

The door shut with a snap, and it was as though a bucket had been perched on its narrow frame; a bucket filled with a heavy sleep and a ceaseless stream of strange dreams that all came tumbling down into the dark office to engulf her.

-

A seven piece orchestra played something exquisite and unspecific as she spun by, plucking and pressing their instruments with their heart shaped leaves as she waltzed from giant lily pad to giant lily pad. Her gown that was a million hexagons all interlocked swirled over her skin and about her ankles as her dance partner dipped her low, low, lower still. Mel gasped and clung to the void with whom she danced.

“Smile with your mouth, dear, not your forehead!”

Her mother fluttered her petals as she glided past in a whirl of sparkling red, and Mel tried to reach out but then she was laid flat and the cool water lapped at her bare arms. The giant lily pads floated away to follow the dancers and she stared up at the void that took form into something dark with arms, so many arms, that arched all around her like a huge metal spider. She saw now that it was not emptiness, not a void at all, but something hulking and massive that gazed back dangerously with two points of bright green: the reactor, her reactor, her hope, her lifeline, her ruin. It throbbed with sound, pulsing and dissonant and pain shot across Mel’s forehead and she was rising from the darkness, from the tunnels beneath Gotham, from slumber. The sound followed her as she awoke, hissing quietly as she shifted and opened her eyes.

The little office would have been completely dark but for the desk lamp. Bane sat beside it and the pale light made the metal of the mask glow. With one huge hand he turned the page in a familiar binder; he did not look up when she stirred. Mel was somehow more tired than she’d been before, tired in her bones and in her brain. She laid perfectly still and watched him sluggishly. He turned the page once more. The leather coat and the motorcycle gear were gone leaving him in a simple black shirt and trousers and the effect made him appear almost like a man. The mask shattered the illusion.

“Is this because of what I said at the party?”

Bane made a sound in his throat, something like a hum, and it surfaced as a whirr. He closed the binder and studied the front.

“Yes.”

Mel supposed she could blame champagne or the cockiness of another lifetime for speaking to him all those months ago, for engaging with a behemoth that every fiber of her being told her was deadly. To have the last word. To show off her cleverness after being humiliated. She buried half of her face in the synthetic fabric of the cushion and closed her eyes once more. Now, in this new world where she lay humbled and listless, she wanted nothing more than some peace of mind. She would not be saved, could not go back and change anything, but it somehow was a relief to know how her grave had been dug.

“Why?”

In the darkness and silence she received no answer.

“What’s the point?”

Her head ached and still he said nothing. She scrunched her eyelids hard when she felt the sneaking prickle of a tear. _She would **never** cry again_.

“You got what you wanted. You got your bomb.”

The prickle crept into her throat and she clamped down on it harshly. _Never. Again._

“You sent Miranda, or whoever she really is, to...to... _mine_ me for information. I don’t have anything else.”

Mel felt a ripple in the air, truly _felt_ it more than heard it or saw it. She opened her eyes but he appeared just as he had been before: unmoving, unbothered. Shakily she pushed herself up to one elbow.

“What?”

Bane said nothing, gave her no indication of anything. His mask warbled disinterestedly as he slowly swiped a thumb across the printed title on the binder. Her binder. Her proposal. Her day. Hers. The voice that tore from her lips was almost wrathful.

_**“Answer me!”** _

“Tell me, doctor, are you familiar with the allegory of the cave?”

Mel’s chest heaved as she grappled for something like composure and she sank onto her back. Once the swell of anger had bubbled out of her mouth she felt as thought she’d been turned inside out. _God, she was tired_.

“I’m a scientist, not a philosopher.”

“For a scholar of your quality, what should stand in the way of the boundless pursuit of knowledge?”

There was no recognizable accent in his voice; he had none of the vague European coyness of not-Miranda, nor the sensuousness of not-Mendoza-- _Barsad_ , she reminded herself acidly -- leaving a listener no clue as to his allegiances. In what did he believe, in who, and why? And his tone. Gentlemanly she’d once thought to call it. Polite, indifferent, inhuman and mechanical, and intelligent. Exceptionally intelligent, dangerously so. A giant he may be but this was no lumbering beast. For the first time in a long while Mel felt that the playing field had shifted out of her favor. She made a careless gesture with her hand, as casually as her aching and exhaustion would allow.

“It's Plato. A prisoner held in a cave, trying to make sense of the world by the only things they can see.”

“Which are?”

The massive boots shuffled as he settled forward with his elbows on his knees. There was a wave of new energy about him now: forward facing, alert, interested. Mel noted it. Her heart began to pound and she could feel the throbbing in her skull. She knew the answer, knew what he wanted her to say but she did not know why. The playing field stirred, shifting, tilting. She felt him waiting, the intensity of his attention pressing on her. She answered.

“Shadows.”

He nodded, just once, and with a little twinge of dismay and thrill Mel saw the corners of his eyes crease and knew he was smiling.

“May I call you by your name, doctor?”

She didn’t answer right away; she weighed the choices. His fingers moved endlessly over the smooth front of the binder, over her name printed across the front. Her full name-- not just Mel-- the name with the doctorate, the name of a person who had been on the verge of greatness, a person who could spout Plato but couldn’t see a trap as it was laid in front of her. A fool.

“Yes.”

His eyes glinted in the darkness and her name lilted almost playfully from within the mask.

“What story do the shadows speak to you, _Pamela_?”

She had been Mel for so long; it ate away at her that this would be the moment she would hear her full name spoken, that she would become Pamela again. The hole within her flared suddenly, fueled by anger, fueled by this pillar of a man and this world and how she fit into his analogy.

 **Mel** was the fool. **Pamela** was something new.

 ** _Pamela_** _was a force, smart as hell, and owed him nothing_.

“The prisoner has a chain around her neck, correct?”

Bane watched her from behind his mask and she bore back into him.

“Am I _wrong_?”

This would not be a monologue. She would have a goddamn answer. He blinked almost sleepily.

“Not at all.”

The burning in her belly poured into her arms and she pushed herself upright. Blood rushed to her head and her cheek throbbed.

“So I am the prisoner and the shadows tell me the only facts I can reasonably surmise. What do you question,” she tilted her head to emphasize the question, “my _method_ or the facts?”

She did not wait for an answer this time.

“Because my method is sound. For example, you did something-- you _reacted_ \--just now when I brought up Miranda. So, based empirically on my observation, the shadows tell me that you didn’t send her anywhere. You’re not really in charge, are you?”

The silence that followed thrummed with the potential of his reaction. She would not backtrack, would not buckle. But, shit, he was angry. Dangerous. It rolled off of him in waves. But she was right. She would not apologize for being right. She hated the tremor in her voice when she continued.

“You’re _not_. So the shadows aren’t always lies. They’re just...inconsistent. And I have nothing else to base a theory upon since I cannot turn my head.”

He moved so, so quickly. In a flash the behemoth was in front of her and her breath froze in her lungs as he bore down; one enormous hand grasping the couch beside her and the other curling beneath her chin once again. An impossibly large knuckle pressing up into her jaw while the thumb settled with a soft and terrifying promise of power against the place on her neck where her pulse beat wildly. Bane leaned in close to her face, close enough that she could see the scar over his brow. His eyes were green. They raked over her face as he slanted over her just like the reactor that she’d waltzed with in her dream. His voice was low and warm.

“Then we must unshackle you.”

His thumb pressed more firmly into her pulse as he inhaled a long rattling breath. It was as though he were drawing in her fear, her outrage, and her whole fucking existance through the mesh. Referencing his metaphor had seemed a safe way to quell his anger; in a way she’d been right, though she could not tell if this would be worse. She arched her neck away from him but the heat of his touch followed, dug in until she choked out a small sound of pain, then was gone. Bane straightened; he swiped his thumb across her windpipe before allowing his hand to drop to his side.

“Rest now.”

He looked down at her once before moving away and there was something like curiosity in his eyes. She watched him go, watched the door close behind his massive form, and only when the sound of his footsteps faded did she reanimate. She slumped into a trembling puddle in the darkness, gasping for air in shallow gulps. Pamela was not gone, but it was Mel who settled into an uneasy sleep.

\--

xo, trppnwtz


	7. Chapter 7

Tra la la, wHoOps. This chapter got out of hand because it started off as a much different outline and ended up being a billion pages so I needs to readjust etc, etc. Anyways --in theory-- that means I should have another one up and ready in a much shorter period of time, but please feel free to bug me. 

I have huge big enormous emotions about linguistics which is another reason this got halted; if you are interested in the headcanon and research/reasoning behind any of this please let me know! I've considering posting a companion piece with all of my appendices (because idk that's who I am) because ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR IT.

Your views, kudos and reviews are much beloved!

* * *

_ The little form raged and twisted and spat like a beast when he swept it up. They moved through the bodies like water, far from the screaming that had drawn him as it drew the others swarming to commotion and the promise of blood. He had settled heavily in a darkened corner and tucked it close, the little thing that vibrated and was still all at once. It was strange to be so close to the oddity that had come to be in this dark place, that had stretched and grown and become the shape of a small child. When it first filled the Pit with its wails the others had turned to him wickedly. _

_ “Do you hear that,  _ **_Boy_ ** _?” had called the one with blue-black beard, “That name is yours no longer! This new one must have it now, for he is a prince and has earned it with his stature!” _

_ That had filled the Pit with roars of laughter. Boy had not replied; in his endless days he had grown large and they had grown wary, but not so much that they would not fight back. He’d tucked deeper into the shadows and twisted his strings. What had once been cloth were now nothing more than threadbare strips, but the feeling of their length along his callouses brought a calm. Spurred on by the response, the bearded one had pointed and bellowed an alternative name, a short harsh word in his own language. The laughter below him paused; they’d scratched their whiskers and shrugged their shoulders.  _ **_What does it mean?_ ** _ they had asked, the ones who spoke only the western dialects. The bearded one had scowled and spat his irritation and called it once more in words that all could understand. _

**_Weaver!_ **

_ Their howls had echoed cruelly off of the stone walls. _

**_Weaver! Weaver with his rags!_ **

_ The prince who was now Boy spoke to him, the little voice harsh and soft and he did not understand. The words were in the high language, the nobles dialect. Weaver shook his head. Boy spoke again more firmly, but slower. Some of the sounds were similar to the ones he knew but pressed into strange shapes.  _

**_Who calls of you?_ **

_ Weaver felt he understood the question-- who are you? what are you called?-- but he paused. He had been Boy once-- but now, of course, the prince was Boy-- and after that he had only been Weaver. Weaver with his rags. He said it, the coarse word that was the only name he had, and Boy only stared back. He reached into his covering and held out his worn strings for the prince to see.  _

**_Weaver_ ** _. _

_ He said it again, slowly and clear. Boy had taken the strings, studied them, then repeated the word clumsily over the planes of his noble accent, speaking it like a strange new taste.  _

_ “Be-oohn.” _

_ A new wave of horrible sounds roared out of the cell that Boy had shared with his mother and the prince shook and buried into Weaver’s body. It was an unknown strangeness to be so close to another, to be touched without fists or kicks or spite. A feeling like the opposite of loneliness if such a thing could exist: warm and sharp like sadness. A feeling that made him want to wrap his largeness around the little creature like a shield. He did so stumblingly, curling around Boy’s trembling shoulders as gently as he could. The prince touched Weaver’s chest with tiny fingers that still held the strings. _

_ “Be-hn.” _

_ The word was spoken more fluidly this time. Weaver blinked and nodded. The fingers had moved away and came to stillness on Boy’s own chest. _

_ “Talia.” _

_ The feeling that was like sharp sadness flared once more, though it was different now and also bitter like fear.  _ **_Talia_ ** _. It was a name for a girl child. Weaver looked down and marvelled as the little thing nestled further into him; it was not a little prince at all, but a little princess. The sharpness lost all of its warmth but continued to burn cooly and unhappily. He wrapped himself more tightly around her smallness. This was not a place for girls, not a place where girl children would blossom. Would survive.  _

_ Weaver looked up, up at the hole far away in the darkness that was all he knew of The World. The princess must not stay here. And it was then that he knew his purpose, understood why he had come to exist as a shadow in this place. He would show her. She must be fearless, but he would show her. She must rise. _

\--

“No thanks.”

Barsad didn’t move, holding out another small white tablet unwaveringly. Mel stubbornly pressed her spine into the couch.

“They make me see things.”

The hand didn’t falter. She looked into his face pitifully, trying to elicit something besides boredom from his glacial eyes. Mentally she dug through her toolbox but the days of uncertainty and isolation had left her clumsy. 

“They make me hallucinate arguments with my mother.” 

Mel grimaced and tucked her hair behind an ear. 

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

It was a little heavy handed; a little too jokey, a little too damsel in distress, and also a little too truthful for her taste. Barsad blinked heavily and she wasn’t vain enough to read anything other than irritation in the movement. He dropped the pill onto the desk and rummaged in the med kit. Mel sat and worked to remain silent as he snipped and tugged at her stitches; the wound was healing but it still hurt. One hand held the scissors and the other held her head firmly in place. His thumb pressed her chin upwards to achieve a better angle and Mel’s mind swam with memories of huge warm hands and the stab of green eyes. 

_ Then we must unshackle you. _

Those words had haunted her in the days--  _ how many had it been? There was no way to tell in the dim little office _ \--since she’d arrived. She lay in the dark tormented by what her presence could mean. Where her necessity existed in Bane’s grand new world. What it meant to be unshackled. When the door had opened after the first terrifying night she had been a wreck, sure she was about to be thrown to the grim and grimy masses to be misused and torn apart. It had been Barsad; he had handed her a white pill, placed some sliced bread and beans on the desk, swiped over her stitches with a cloth that stung, and then closed the door curtly as he left. Every time afterwards had been the same: always Barsad, always with food and medicine, always curt and efficient. Time had passed this way, days and days she guessed. Enough time for her wounds to begin to heal, for her body to stiffen from disuse, and her brain to become foggy from the pills. 

“Is it healed?”

Barsad turned her chin once more, studying her cheek. He did not respond. He almost never did. To Mel it was beginning to feel like a game or some kind of twisted compulsion, trying to think of something to say so that might drag out a response. Politeness, pity, jokes, and medical questions had all failed today. Feeling reckless and strange she tried a fifth time.

“Where’s Bane?”

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a frown, nothing. He gathered the kit and Mel sagged into the couch and watched blearily. Suddenly he turned and gestured towards the desk with his chin.

“Eat. Your work begins tomorrow.”

It took her a couple of slow seconds to process his words; she looked dumbly at the plate then back at Barsad.

“Work?”

He said nothing as he walked towards the door. She tried to stand but her legs protested woodenly and in the end she just teetered forward in her seat.

“What work?”

The door would snap closed behind him in a matter of seconds.

“If I’m going to be working I need a shower!”

Mel colored a bit at the volume and shrillness of her words but forgot her embarrassment when Barsad turned and stared back at her blankly. She took in his familiar form: the combat boots, the medkit, the shadowy beard. She’d done it. She had his attention. In the fleeting moment of human interaction she tried to remember what it felt like to be a person, but his eyes hardened before she had a chance. She gestured vaguely to her sweaty bloody clothing.

“This smells the way it looks.”

He gave her a disinterested lookover then turned and left. She watched the door close behind him for what seemed like the thousandth time. Dragging her stiff body towards the desk Mel ignored the pill and grabbed the dish-- rice and beans this time. She took a bite. Whatever it was it was always hot and filling and well spiced. This once was warm in a peppery way and without the effects of the pill in her veins the taste exploded across her tongue. She took a second bite and, as she chewed, eyeballed the little tablet and then swiped it roughly with her free hand. It clattered away and disappeared into the shadows of the bookshelves. Her fingers grazed the rough skin on her forehead where the cut was healing as she considered Barsad’s words.

_ Your work begins tomorrow. _

If things were changing then she couldn’t be numb anymore. From now on she would be vigilant. She was calm, she was...she couldn’t quite bring herself to finish the thought. Time would tell what she was. 

Mel wilted to the floor and shoveled another forkful into her mouth. She missed her plants.

\--

The door swung open again a while later and Mel nearly jumped out of her skin. Barsad tossed a duffel bag towards her and it landed with a soft  _ thud _ at her feet. She looked between it and the man in the doorway; when, unsurprisingly, he said nothing she unzipped it and peered inside carefully. Her head swung up.

“Is this my stuff?”

All hesitation forgotten, she pawed through the jumble of familiar clothing.

“Was someone in my apartment?”

He shifted his weight ever so slightly, his face bored.

“Were  _ you _ in my apartment??”

“If you want a shower get what you need now.”

_ What-- _

Her body left her brain, still shaking off its previous fogginess, behind, grabbing a random handful of clothing and hurrying stiffly after Barsad as he marched from the dark office into the hallway. Mel’s eyes darted around quickly as she followed, taking in the neutral walls, the dated carpet, the intricate wooden moldings. 

_ Labor Standards _ , read one door about twenty feet from her office.

_ Economic Development. _

_ Construction and Inspections. _

Definitely a government building but she couldn’t be sure which. Several armed men milled about on the second floor as they passed on the way down the large staircase; Mel let her matted hair shield her face and stayed close to Barsad’s back. As they crossed the wide marble lobby Mel looked up and saw the words Gotham City Hall etched overhead in gold; she struggled to notice the grandeur of the space, thinking only that it was the place where she’d thought she would die, where her fate had been sealed, where she’d heard the sounds of two men being ripped apart. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly and she gritted her teeth until her head throbbed. As they went down another staircase towards the basement the clenching turned into a soft burning.  _ Keep your wits about you, _ it said.  _ Think. _

Barsad stopped in front of a door with an uninteresting acrylic placard at the end of the hall. 

**Delousing Shower** _. _

_ Gross. _

Mel flipped on the fluorescent lights. The room looked like no one had been inside in twenty years; it had also clearly doubled as a custodial closet. An old dried out string mop and some faded bottles of cleaner sat huddled in a corner against the tiles that lined the walls and floor. In the opposite corner a showerhead protruded from the wall. At some point someone had hung an aggressively cheery shower curtain covered in a nautical print, but it too had faded and begun to peel. She looked over her shoulder when the door swung closed behind her. Barsad had not followed her inside; the door, however, remained open an inch and she heard his armor thunk heavily against the wall outside.

The water sputtered and rattled at first but eventually came out hot and Mel stood in the stream as it spattered against her. The effects of the pills continued to leave her system and for a while all she could do was stand rigidly as the unfamiliar sensations coursed through her. After a time she raised a hand experimentally and scrubbed at her skin and watched the drain swirl with old blood and dirt and stink and fear, watched it run dark at first and then gradually become clear. She did it again and again, an arm, a leg, her shoulders, the back of her neck. Her skin ached and tingled but it felt amazing to _ feel  _ once again. It overwhelmed her and shakily she sat on the old tile floor. The water thundered down on her skull and ran in thick hot rivers off of her ears, her nose, and down her cheeks;  _ almost like tears _ , she mused. She had said that she would never cry again and she meant what she had said, but it was freeing to feel the shower crying for her while she sat. 

_ Think _ . 

With the roar of the water like white noise in her ears, Mel brain’s swam with images of office doors and second floor landings and guns and tshirts she’d thought she’d never hold again.  _ Think.  _ What did she know? What could she use? She stared at her feet. Her toenails still had polish on them and she puzzled over this remnant from another world for a moment to allow her brain to untangle. 

She was a prisoner. She was alive. She was a fool. She was a scientist. 

_ Think. _

The door creaked as it opened another inch.

“You’re clean. Finish up.”

Mel peered around the edge of the curtain at the door but it had been returned to its original position and Barsad was nowhere in sight. The corner of her mouth twitched with something like the ghost of a smile. She was a scientist.  _ Observation, Induction, Deduction, Testing, Evaluation. _

Observations:

  1. She had asked for a shower
  2. She had gotten what she’d asked for
  3. A duffel bag of her clothing sat upstairs



Inductions:

  1. Above observations represented a potential (influence, escape, etc)



Deductions:

  1. Tbd



Testing:

  1. Tbd



Evaluation:

  1. Tbd



She wrung the water out of her hair and pulled on the clothes, black denim and a sweater; she had not worn either since the year before but they were still her clothes.  _ Hers. _ The dichotomy was strange, to be wrapped in her own things and feel like a completely different person, like the time in the dingy little room had been time in a cocoon. Like Mel had walked in and Pamela had come out. She clung to the feeling as she followed Barsad back the way they’d come. This time she was hyperaware, careful, intentional when they climbed the grand staircase. She took in the scene on the second floor: the cots, the array of technology, the guns, the men. Some wore red scarves and others did not. She noted it. A couple looked up when she came into view, taking in her wet hair and bare feet with greedy eyes. She watched the beginnings of action; a mouth almost opening to call out, a foot almost lifting to step towards her-- she watched the actions evaporate at the whisper of a mechanical hiss.

Bane moved heavily down the stairs between the third and second floors towards the landing, hands clutching the straps of an armored vest as he joined two red scarved men who waited for him by the bannister. Mel and Barsad passed the behemoth silently. She could feel the heat and power rolling off of his bare arms, could feel the change in the room as he entered. Not a single pair of eyes remained on her as she moved off of the landing towards the office at the end of the third floor hallway. Behind her the red scarved men spoke in low voices to their commander and she turned her head carefully to look. They gestured to a large piece of paper--  _ a blue print? a map? _ \-- and Bane’s fingers flexed against the fabric as he listened. In the space between the mask and his vest she could see the jagged lines of a massive scar, branched and twisted like roots down his back. The voices of the mercenaries with the map halted and Mel’s breath died in her throat as Bane turned to meet her gaze over his shoulder. 

“How are your shadows today, Pamela?”

Ever the gentleman, he inclined his head as his words rasped through the metal though he never looked away. The mask, as always, hid his expression, leaving his green eyes to bore cryptically into her.

_ Think. _

She acknowledged her heartbeat rattling in her ribcage but refused to be cowed. The others could be cowed, would halt in their tracks at the power, at the danger, at the mountainous hugeness of this man. Mel had something that they did not; locked away in the shadowy pit, ignorant and chained at the neck she had still been right about him. Even though she had nothing else besides a disparity in red scarves and a weapons set up she did not understand, it was valuable. It was something. Whatever game was at foot had a leader and, though a commander he might be, he was still a puppet like her. A fellow pawn could be maneuvered. Mel filled her lungs with air and blinked, weaving an illusion of calm she did not entirely feel.

“The same.”

Again there was that feeling, that wash of something that emitted from him and into the air around her. This time he did not come towards her, did not react beyond the familiar dark, curious glint in his eyes. The playing field shifted, tilting first one way and then the other. He could not change these shadows. Barsad led her away to her office. Around his neck was a red scarf. She noted it. She tried to remember if Grim or Grimy had worn them as well, whether Bane himself wore one. Impulsively, turned back to look once more. Bane was engrossed with the map as the red scarved men gestured across its front, the muscles in his neck massive and visible and uncovered. His fingers swiped up and down at the straps on his vest; as they moved she could make out a flash of color against the armor and mesh. The smallest hint of red. 

She was smart as hell and would unshackle herself.

* * *

xo, trppnwtz


	8. Chapter 8

Three months, shmree months. I became massively distracted- as many of us have, I imagine- and also starting (guiltily) writing something else because I got stuck once more. It finally occurred to me to find a solution to a ton of storytelling that would've lasted a billion chapters in ONE chapter of pseudo-vignettes, if only to get things rolling a little more quickly. So, all of this being said, it's a little shorter than usual and a little but piecemeal-y, but here we go!

Reads, comments, kudos, and reviews are belov'd!

* * *

**Day 2**

"Who did you send to my apartment?"

The contents of the duffel bag were a curious mix. Practical denim and socks, a chunky sweater made of soft wool, a toothbrush, perfectly matched sets of underwear, a box of tampons, boots, deodorant, a nightgown. Mel's eyebrows shot up when her fingers had brushed the dark green silk. For one bizarre moment she'd imagined it to be her gown from the charity ball; instead it was a nighty, one she'd bought impulsively on a humid summer evening and had ended up shoved in the back of her underwear drawer and forgotten about entirely.

"Did _you_ go?"

Barsad said nothing. She leaned back into the car seat and fixed her eyes on his face; watching, probing, searching for a microscopic fissure that might be an opportunity. His thumb swiped across the steering wheel, barely a twitch but a little thrill slithered up Mel's spine. Carefully she crafted her next sentence, imagining the collection of comfortable and functional items contrasting sharply with the presence of a green silk nightgown. If she could analyze the person who had packed it- and she had an ever-increasing notion of who that had been -that information could prove valuable. She was smart as hell.

"This strategy is transparent."

Torn from her scheming, Mel blinked. Barsad flickered his eyes at her once before looking back out the windshield at the empty city street.

"The Stockholm Syndrome method. Your energy would be better invested elsewhere. It won't work."

"I-I _wasn't_ -"

She sputtered as her sentence died in her throat. A flash of embarrassment, of anger, of disappointment twisted in her chest. Such a clever plan, blown to rumble in seconds. Mel sat in the metaphorical pieces and glared at her shoes.

"Fine."

She wondered if the thumb swipe had been unintentional at all; she wondered if she'd ever stop falling into traps. It had been a long day. She wasn't used to bright fluorescents after so long in the dark little office and a headache was beginning to twinge behind her eyes. Was this to be her life now? A gullible creature who slithered cringing into the light to do her master's bidding? The embarrassment settled low as the anger and bitter disappointment tangled and bubbled into her throat.

"Stockholm Syndrome isn't a real thing, you know."

She scowled at her boots, her clenched toes hidden beneath the leather. The car drove on.

"A Swedish psychiatrist couldn't stomach that a woman made him feel incapable, so he invented it to discredit her. And everyone preferred to believe she had a diagnosis because the alternative was that the powerful people they'd put their trust in were incompotent."

Her mouth went on muttering the words as her brain listened with disconnected curiosity and confusion.

"So if you want me to shut up, or... I don't know- if you want to _threaten_ me, or threaten the next botanist Bane kidnaps, you should rethink your strategy because she'll know you're wrong. Or," Mel's head thunked back against the seat as she tried to follow her own thoughts, "maybe she won't, or...I don't know-one way or the other, _I do_. It won't work. I know the difference between altered brain chemistry and someone advocating for herself."

Silence fell around them as she trailed off, hanging cooly in the air as she turned and stared hard out the window. _God, her head hurt_. She closed her eyes to block out the orange light of the setting sun.

"Credit where credit is due."

For a moment she wondered if she'd actually heard him say it. She was almost afraid to open her eyes, to look at him and find she'd misheard, but after a moment she did. Barsad was unchanged: hands on the steering wheel, face blank, pale eyes staring lazily in front of him.

**Day 4**

She sat on the cold metal stool as unpleasantness personified shuffled about on the other side of the lab. The other scientist was nearly always there when she arrived: tall and thin with cold light glinting off of his glasses. Barsad had barked an order at him on the first day she'd arrived.

"Stay out of Dr. Isley's way."

The scientist had merely snorted and pressed his glasses further up his nose.

"Fear not, working with pests is outside the scope of my studies."

Mel grabbed a handful of small frozen vials from the insulated coolbox and placed them on her workbench. In her periphery she could see him openly sneering at her as she shimmied on a pair of safety gloves. She ignored him and held up a single bottle to observe the nondescript viscous liquid inside.

_Fucking prick._

**Day 7**

The car door rattled as she slammed it shut and sat moodily in her seat. Barsad gave no indication that he'd noticed her display. He shifted the car into gear and they drove back towards City Hall. Her head was aching again; from frowning, from the flickering fluorescents, from annoyance. Mel sighed heavily through her nose, scowling out the window.

"If I had my own laptop this would all go a lot faster."

There was probably a snowflake's chance in hell that anything would come of this, she knew that all too well.

"My _work_ laptop" she clarified, scrubbing roughly at her face, "it has the software for this stuff, archives. I wouldn't be _wasting_ all of this time doing shit by hand."

Barsad gave her a single dry glance and then turned back to the road. She flung up her arms in wilted exasperation.

"What do you think I'm going to _do_?"

To her credit it was a perfectly honest question, entirely free of subtext or motive. What _did_ he think she would do? She didn't even know if there was normal internet in Gotham anymore, let alone access to things like email and social media. And, assuming they somehow still existed in this new world of Bane's, she wasn't stupid enough to suppose they woud not be tracking every stroke of every key.

"I'm a damn botanist, not a _hacker_ , not a-not a _soldier_."

He said nothing. Mel leaned against her seatbelt and rested her forehead in her hands.

"I'm not even a chemist," she rubbed her temples, "You know that better than any of them. **_Mr. Mendoza_**."

The moment of silence that followed felt, somehow, different from the countless other such moments. Mel didn't say anything; she waited, listened, very nearly wondered if he would agree. Barsad said nothing. She noted it all the same.

**Day 10**

_Labor Standards_ was the door beside her office. Next came _Economic Development_ , followed by _Construction and Inspections_ on the third. Beside the fourth was a gold plaque that read _Lucinda Kane City Archives_. Mel looked it over carefully as Barsad knocked on the door. She held a refrigerated case in her hands and had a creeping notion of what she would find past the closed door; she revelled in the final moments of conjecture and ignorance before the warbling voice bid them enter. All of the furniture had been pushed to the corners of the large dark room, leaving the space cleared of everything but a bed covered in an elaborate quilt and a desk and chair beside the fireplace. Bane sat gazing into the flames, twisting a length of cord between his fingers. The sight sent a spike of fear through Mel and she hesitated; what was the rope for? Barsad nudged her forward, his face as blank as ever. Gingerly she stepped closer. Bane did not react until she placed the case beside his massive boot; he gave no more than a fleeting glance first to the case and then at her, nodded, and looked away once more. Mel didn't move. Thoughts of underground tunnels, of dream waltzing with a reactor, of a huge hand twisting her bloody hair away from her face, of green nightgowns and orchids on south facing tables and red scarves all swirled through her veins as her heart beat erratically.

_Then we must unshackle you._

That had been his ominous decree. His unsought pledge. His promise.

Bane looked back at her when she did not move away. His eyes bore into her and for a terrible moment she remembered the CCTV footage from the stock exchange, of the deadly speed and violence that she had not quite experienced first hand. He blinked slowly and turned his massive torso towards her. One hand tucked the cord into a pocket in his vest and the other he held out in an open gesture.

"You have my full attention, my dear."

His tone was cordial and her lungs released the breath she did not know they'd been holding. She swallowed and turned her gaze to the case. After several days of slow, unsatisfying progress it was now full of little canisters, just over two dozen representing hours and hours of her life wasted, once more, in a lab. Mel motioned to it with her chin.

"Those will be...administered... via aerosol, I assume."

This man had brought Gotham to its knees, had it cowering with the brutality he left in the wake of his every civil word. He watched her now in cryptic mild silence as he almost always did, as they all almost always did, as everyone almost always did, and it made the hole in her belly flare. Had he really assumed she hadn't figured it out? How stupid did he think she was?

"The peptides can't penetrate the blood/brain barrier. It'd be barely better than straight opioids, depending on the intended usage. Which," she added acidly, "I can only _infer_. Frankly, its an entirely inelegant-"

Bane moved to stand. The heft of his colossal form made no sound, the ropes of muscle curling and angling beneath his black shirt as he rose; through the mesh of the mask there was a crackling like a grunt. Mel fumbled, pressing back hard at the instant swell of intimidation.

" _And_ unpredictable, untested-"

"It is a lasting dilemma, I imagine, for men and women of science," he stepped past her towards the fireplace, "the great analytical minds of any age must face this one same crucible."

The flickering light sent sparks dancing in his eyes when he gazed back over his shoulder. His tone was philosophical; his expression was wicked.

"To produce _fact_ while resisting an appreciation for a little elegance."

The patient words were like those of a parent speaking with a child. A superior, a permissive educator. Mel had once been able to brush this kind of comment off with nothing but a pinch of irritation. Pamela, it seemed, could do no such thing. Not in this new, dark world where every day might be her last; where it had been promised that her shackles would fall away. Bane the titan had advanced on her, slanted over her like her reactor, filled her with terror and the savage need to drag herself to her own feet. This man, the man who stood silently before the fire, was brushing her off without saying no. He sounded tired. Mel's fingernails cut hard into her palms. After all of this, after everything the last decade had offered, was she expected to settle into quivering servitude?

She was smart as hell and was owed much, much more.

"That would depend on my definition of elegance."

Her tone was arrogant and she didn't care in the least. For the first time she watched as, almost imperceptibly, Bane's eyebrows rose. She noted it.

"To assume otherwise would be generalizing."

"Generalizations," he turned his back to the fire and Mel felt the overwhelming intensity of his full attention, "assumptions- based upon generally held knowledge or reasonable observations -are received in science, are they not?"

"As a basis for hypothesis, yes."

"Hypotheses which with the proper method are molded into theories, which are inspired by assumptions?"

The hole inside her seethed and Mel took a step towards him.

"A proper method does not _mold_. Proper method has no opinions, it shows the truth regardless of opinion or intention."

There was a small voice in the back of her mind that begged her to move back, to tuck a curl behind her ear and gently draw her eyes away from Bane's. Aggressively, she muzzled it and, when it had crumpled into silence, the corner of her mouth lifted. She smiled.

"Unshackled by assumption."

Mel could feel her heartbeat hammering in her palms and in her throat as Bane moved towards her, stopping only when he was only a hair's width away. She could see the weave in the fabric of his shirt, could smell him in the fibers: leather and human and metal. The mask whispered over her head and she tilted her chin back and found the stab of his eyes boring down.

"Your definition?"

Instinctively she sought the expression behind the mask. His fingertips ghosted against her arm as he breathed.

"Concise."

"Simplistic?"

"No."

Bane inhaled as though to counter but Mel spoke first.

" _Intentional_."

She pointed to the case.

"That is not intentional. It's a _reaction_ , not a _solution_."

Disdain dripped from her words- perhaps more than was due, perhaps more than she even truly felt -but the truth remained. The little canisters were as inefficient as lab produced heavy water, as ugly as dead roses coated in wax, as pointless as endless hexagons blinking unhappily across a computer screen. His lethal green eyes glinted like knives and slowly, languidly, they creased at the corners.

"You could do better."

Mel didn't know what she would've felt if his words had been a question. But, no, it was a statement, spoken darkly and low enough that she could physically feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest before the sound crackled out of the mask. Her response was similarly low but lighter for there was nothing dark about this truth, not to Mel. It was simply a fact.

"I could do better."

The warmth around her wrist was unexpected and she started. Bane raised it high, pressing his thumb along her palm until the backs of all of her fingers lay flat in his. He ran it lightly over the crescent shaped marks where her fingernails had dug into her flesh then moved lower to press firmly into the pulse within her wrist. She watched and neither her heartbeat nor her mind was calm; resolute, perhaps. Stubborn. Audacious.

"That's what the shadows tell me."

"Hmm." He pressed solidly into her wrist once more then released her hand. As it dropped back to her side Bane craned his head lower, arching over her more entirely.

"Not shadows, Pamela."

The mask rattled.

"The _fire_."

**Day 12**

"Eat."

The single word was all Barsad said before moving away down the stairs. Mel leaned against the wall and exhaled. Since learning that Bane's slept just four doors down the familiar little office had begun to feel like a different place. She felt like at any moment the door might open to reveal the behemoth, like at any moment she might notice a pair of sharp green eyes, she felt like…

She didn't quite know the entirety of what she felt.

A wisp of steam caught her attention and she glanced over, then froze. Three items sat in a row on the desk, the steam wafting from the first: a plate of stew. Beside it was something that she had once taken entirely for granted, had plunked down in front of every weekday morning with boredom twisting her face. A purveyor of hexagons, the source of the ill-fated WE messages that had paved her road. Her laptop. It sat there in her dark office prison like an inanimate ghost; she took a half step forward, almost in awe, then faltered once again. A sound like a sob bubbled out of her mouth and she was barreling forward, tripping to land on her knees before the third item in the row. Still in his little terracotta pot, looking perhaps a little wilted and a little worse for wear but very much himself, was Julius. She choked. _Tears of joy were still tears_ , she reminded herself firmly even as she pressed her nose against the smooth, striped leaves. They wrapped around her cheeks, brushing her eyelashes. They sat on the floor like that, embracing and content and unaffected, as outside the evening darkened into night.

* * *

xo, trppnwtz


	9. Chapter 9

Summerrain22: holy heck, friend. Thank you so much for being a review champ!

For all of you glorious human beings who have stuck with me this far, I cannot express how thankful I am. YOU ARE MY BEACONS.

* * *

**Day 11**

Barsad waited to watch the door shut behind the doctor. There was no particular reason to assume her journey down the hallway would be interrupted, that either she or anyone else had ulterior plans. It was unwise, however, to be careless in these times. He swiped his thumb over a fold of the red shemegh at his throat. The rift between those who wore them and those who did not was ever widening in the vacuum of martial law. Those with a mission and those with a cause; these sorts of men were never meant to align, not for long. He suspected the secrecy and lack of exit strategy had to do with the woman called Miranda Tate. He suspected there was never meant to be an exit strategy. Barsad shook his head.

_Idealists._

For a time he stood in the darkness and stared hard at the corner office. Dr. Pamela Isley was proving an obstruction, an unanticipated crease in the cloth. She sat in the center of the divide, feeding the chaos without precisely causing it. The Gotham rabble resented that two of their own had been annihilated, the league- esoteric by nature - frowned at the anomaly, all while the brotherhood's fingers twitched on triggers that anyone should dare cast doubt. And all had no choice but to fall into uncertain silence when she passed, swathed in mystery and the smell of freshly washed hair. At first Barsad had wondered at his instructions to escort her from place to place, but he had learned to understand with time as he felt the weight of their thoughts follow her. Emboldened by the effect that she had, she became cunning, petulant, subversive in a way he did not wish to understand. She was complicated; Barsad disliked her hugely for it and for that he respected her. He would need to be vigilant, as always.

The length of cord was back in Bane's hands when Barsad slipped back through the door, when he stood and gave his report. It was all standard. The Blackgate recruits had- for the most part -begun to fall in line, winter was edging closer with its weather and supply particularities, the projects at the lab were going as planned. Flames lapped around Bane's form as his colossal hands stilled. When he looked over his shoulder his eyes glinted, alive and deadly.

"Anything she requires, see that it is done."

The commander and the lieutenant stood in silence before a fire where two soldiers could also be two men. The larger regarded the smaller for a moment or two, then nodded deeply. It conveyed recognition, perhaps a new awareness of the insight offered in the summer. The smaller man nodded curtly in response and moved to leave.

Barsad was a simple man. He'd perceived a source of value in Dr. Isley and she had demonstrated it. _Aim, shoot, move forward_. That had been his mission for, unlike Bane, he had no cause. He had absolutely no interest in examining the complexities of her psyche. She was like Bane in her way and that, perhaps, was her curse. He closed the door behind him.

* * *

_October 3rd, 3:17pm_

Mel was surprised when she booted up her laptop to see how much time had passed. Thirty four days, just a little more than one month, since the meeting in the boardroom at Wayne Tower. Since the day that ought to have been hers. It seemed, somehow, an impossible task to imagine thirty _five_ days ago, to imagine August, to think of anything besides the timeline she'd built for herself since she'd left City Hall and her work began. Today was Day 13. The idea was dreary and much more manageable.

She glanced up at the large Wayne Chemical logo that decorated the wall and her fingers stuttered to stillness on the keyboard. It held so much weight, so many memories. It felt stifling to sit here as it shone like a spotlight- _like a motherfucking **beacon**_ -over her head. She didn't know this particular lab, it hadn't been one that she'd ever used during her time as a WE lackey, and that was one small relief. Mel rubbed her eyes; machines whirred softly around her and across the lab the bespectacled asshole tinkered silently as always. Resisting the urge to flip off the back of his head, she grabbed the print out analysis from the ICS-MP instrument. After nearly two weeks of synthesizing gas from the vials of liquid she was well aware that she was building an analgesic, a painkiller. Her fingers paused on the keys for half a second. Experimentally, she clicked open an internet browser; after a couple of tense seconds she was met with a 404 server error and she closed the window. A chemical database software was installed on all WE company computers and it opened without issue. She entered in the basic components of the mystery liquid then frowned at the screen. She entered the information a second time, taking extra care to make sure everything was correct, but the results remained the same. _A conotoxin_? She scrolled through the pages of diagrams. Specifically, it seemed, the venom of fucking sea snails. A grimace pulled at her face.

_Working with pests is outside the scope of my studies._

That bit of snobbery made more sense now. Mel rummaged through the jumble of notebook paper in front of her. If she was going to accomplish anything she needed to type up and organize her notes, to bring some order to the mess that was her workbench. Her brain was in an emotional tangle- curiosity, disgust, a complicated sense of validation. She sighed heavily through her nose and snatched up a random sheet; at least her mind and her desk were in chaotic agreement. The processor that hummed at her side was synthesizing a fresh batch of little canisters, filling them with an aerosol she now had no doubt was the air Bane breathed. The twisted, rattling mask was not just to hide his face, to inspire fear and infamy: it was keeping him standing, keeping him upright in the face of some kind of massive pain. Mel tried to picture the details of the device, the scar on his back and on his hand and over his eyebrow. How precisely did the mask work? What was the exact nature of the pain? What had happened to him? She was neither a doctor nor a medical researcher and her history of languishing on pharmaceutical projects was only going to get her so far. She clicked back into the database and stared at the results once more, willing them to offer something she couldn't describe. _I can do better_. That's what she had said. Utilizing conotoxin was genius, innovative, and clumsy. An infuriating smattering of hexagons lumped together to slap a bandaid on a problem. Inelegant in every way but how the fuck was she supposed to do any better?

Suddenly, the unpleasant scientist was leaning against the desk directly beside her. Mel- who had been wondering when one's involvement made them accomplice to a war crime -nearly jumped.

"I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

_Whose fucking fault it that you pompous sack of shit?_

She deigned to glance in his general direction but did not meet his gaze.

"No," her fingers resumed their clacking on the keyboard, "introductions before _acknowledgment_ rarely occur."

There was silence for a brief, hovering moment and then he chuckled and held out a hand.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane."

She let his offered hand hang between them as she finished typing her sentence. Something familiar tickled at the back of her brain but she didn't bother to examine it; being approached by an arrogant prick in a scientific setting was hardly new terrority. Finally she returned a lukewarm handshake.

"Dr. Pamela Isley."

"A pleasure."

The WE logo was reflected in the lens of his glasses.

"Uh huh." Mel turned back to her laptop, "What brings you to my side of the lab this morning, Dr. Crane?"

He chuckled once again, not responding but also not moving away. **God** , she loathed when men did that: smirked and lingered and made a point of enjoying her, all while slowly angling their groin in her direction. She flickered a glance and, sure enough, his hips were pressed ever so slightly more firmly against the workbench. _Ugh_. He ran his fingers over his greying stubble.

"I read your notes."

That was unexpected, enough so that Mel raised her eyebrows. She frowned at her screen.

"That was rude."

He brushed her comment aside and continued.

"It's good work. Chemists often lack creativity."

Mel's hands stiffened against the desk. _Oh, golly, thanks Dr. Crane! I'm so honored, Dr. Crane! How kind of you to weasel through my stuff and give me feedback, Dr. Crane!_ The fact was that her fuse was simply shorter these days. Maybe it was the stress, the uncertainty, the boredom. Maybe it was a very, very long time coming.

"I'm a botanist."

For a third time he chuckled.

"Then why are you _here_?"

All of the sudden the familiar tickle clicked. She had, fortunately, had no reason to be in the Narrows all those years ago but she still remembered the name Dr. Jonathan Crane.

_The Scarecrow._

He was standing very close to her, exuding the feeling of a man who had once tried to live his life precisely: the right clothes, the suitable shoe, expensive glasses. All were now slightly rumpled, as if the costume had fit poorly from the beginning. _Tread carefully_ , she told herself. _Think_. The seat of her stool swiveled with her as she turned to face him straight on, arming herself with a pleasant voice and bored expression.

"I didn't let my doctorate limit my studies."

He was taller than she'd initially supposed; even on her high laboratory stool she needed to tip her chin to look into his eyes. She saw intelligence there but not an analytical, courteous intelligence, the kind she was rapidly becoming accustomed to seeing flashing down at her. His eyes were impossibly pale and as they scanned her in a calculated, precarious way. She knew this guy. He would never be an alpha predator no matter what he did, no matter how clever, kind, or violent he tried to be; no matter how many fear toxins he composed, no matter how many people he poisoned with them. There would always be an antidote, a Batman.

An idea blossomed in her mind; casually, experimentally, Mel flicked her hair over her shoulder. His eyes shifted to follow the movement. His fingers flexed unconsciously on the desk. Sometimes it took a small whisper of vulnerability to light that covetous beta predator fire-or, in this case, a little bit of soft, bared skin. She watched as he considered her, felt his attention on her newly visible throat, but his expression remained cold and unclear. He needed a little something more. Mel swiveled back towards the laptop. She focused on the screen and purposefully, perfectly, worried her bottom lip with teeth. She waited; once again, he shifted. _There it was._ She sighed and turned back to him.

"Do you have any tips, Dr. Crane?" she tucked a curl behind her ear, "I imagine that you would know quite a lot about converting compounds into aerosols."

His pupils dilated, dark against the icy blue, and though his smile was as cold as ever it spread wide across his face. _Yeah, there it fucking was._

Two options lay before her now. The first to continue onwards, to build painkillers under the fluorescent lights, to maintain the notion that she could do better until she failed or perhaps her capturers lost patience. The second was to find a path to freedom, an avenue she had nearly given up on as every opening around her seemed to slam shut. But now, right in front of her, was something new and unexpected and laden with possibility: a narcissist. And not just any narcissist, but one with an emaciated superiority complex and a clear appreciation for feminine wiles. She was smart as hell...and **he** never arrived or left the lab with an escort. Mel tilted her head inquiringly and his dark pupils swept over her neck once more. She nearly smiled. He was no hero and there was no way he was entirely sane and she had him in the palm of her hand. All she needed to figure out what to _do_ with him-

The mask hissed in the doorway and she froze. It was always Barsad who walked through that door, never anyone else. Never him. It couldn't be. Crane made an irritated sound in his throat and smoothed his unruly hair.

"It was not my understanding that my work in this lab would be undisturbed."

Slowly, Mel turned her head. His frame easily filled the entire doorway; his presence, woven through with the needle of his breath, seeped powerfully into the entire lab. Bane did not reply. His gaze slid thoughtfully over Crane then fell on Mel, and she realized that in turning her head she had also turned the slice of exposed neck. The stab of his green eyes blazed as it swept over her skin. He was all that Jonathan Crane wished to be: an absolute apex predator, no mere alpha, no mere lion or shark or raptor.

"Given the circumstances," Crane removed his glasses, placed his hands on his hips, made large gestures of agitation- tried to make himself bigger, angrier, and failed, "another lab must be made available."

The leather jacket whispered against his fatigues as Bane approached. For a wild moment she was sure he would grab her but his hand wove between them, forcing Crane to step back as he closed the laptop. He did not move away, did not speak, just stood over her blocking the sight of Crane, blocking the fluorescents, blocking out the entire world with the heft of his massive body. Mel swallowed and his eyes took another slow path up her throat before meeting hers lazily. They were deadly and chiding and swimming with something devilish.

"Rest is deserved after a day well-spent."

He knew. She couldn't be certain how much he'd heard- how much he'd possibly seen - but he definitely knew what she'd been attempting. _He wouldn't hurt me_ , she thought, although she was not entirely sure what he _would_ do. Mel quivered and swallowed again. She did not move to cover her throat. The mask rattled and his hand, large as a bear paw, rose from the workbench. Bane pressed against the small of her back, guiding her off of the stool with his forearm. Mel felt the heat and power, felt that inexplicable _something_ in the air that mirrored his thoughts, roll off of him. When she reached the floor she stumbled and fell against him. For a fleeting moment there was no air between them for that _something_ to hover in and it twisted around her, soaked into her skeleton, and utterly overwhelmed her. His fingers curled around the side of her waist. Beneath the layers of clothing her skin jumped, her ribcage expanding into his hand as she sucked in a jagged breath. For a fraction of a second the heavy fingers held her there before they reanimated. Mel pushed shakily against his chest. His hold loosened as she found her feet, twisting in the straps of his vest as he led her away. Somewhere in the background Dr. Crane sputtered defiantly but he was ignored. It was his curse, surely, as clever as he was. He could capture the Narrows, Bane would seize all of Gotham. There would always be someone bigger.

* * *

The leather jacket rustled against her arm. The overwhelming sense of Bane's presence made the backseat feel tiny and unbearably warm. Mel felt hot; she itched. She felt like she was being pulled in twenty different directions and her brain flailed and tried to follow all of them. The truck went over an uneven patch of road and she jostled against his leg. He stared forward evenly.

_Think think think think._

"How does it work?"

Bane looked down at her. Expecting him to be blank, calm, exceptionally empty as always, she was shocked to see that he was smiling. Not pleasantly, though, not the cunning crinkle at the corner of his eyes that she'd seen glimmering in the firelight. The expression in his eyes was vicious. Mel desperately wished she could see the rest of his face, wished he didn't have the power to leave her so lost.

"The mask," her heart hammered against her ribs, "How does the mask work?"

Bane said nothing. Possessed by some madness or another, she nearly raised a hand to touch to mesh. The truck took a sharp turn and she pressed heavily against him. She vibrated, felt a flare at her waist where his hand had held her so powerfully. Suddenly, from a lifetime ago, from beyond the grave, from another universe, a memory surfaced.

_"We're talking shop in the study in five, grab a drink and bring your strategist's mind."_

_Ed's fingers slid over her waist, squeezing and brushing against her with his thumb._

_"You must be my harbinger of good fortune."_

The hole inside her sparked unhappily. Suddenly, Mel wanted to laugh- laugh and laugh and laugh until she crumbled into dust. She leaned as far away from him as she could, her jaw clenching painfully.

"An unexpected gift, right under my nose."

She knew he was listening. She felt it. She knew this guy.

"Before it was like being in stasis or, or, living in a fog. After all that time in the dark and then suddenly: fire. Someone who can actually hear me. **_Dr. Crane._** "

It was inelegant, petulant, and utterly untrue, and she didn't give a single fuck. She flicked her hair over her shoulder. Bane laughed. A barking, rasping, mechanical noise that rattled her to her core.

"I apologize, my beauty."

She rounded quickly and found his eyes heavy, sleepy, and venomous. He reached out a thumb and trailed it deliberately along her throat.

"It is troublesome, indeed, that you have felt unappreciated."

Mel remembered Stryver's dry fingers on her wrist and jamming his card down her neckline, remembered Daggett dissecting her form like she was a thing, remembered Dr. Crane's groin in her face, remembered every look and smirk and cloying empty remark from a million faceless men over the decades of her life. The truck engine shut off and the doors in the front opened and shut. Mel boiled, the hole inside of her a flaring, flaming, disaster. Bane, the behemoth who had beaten the life out of human beings, who had kidnapped her, enslaved her, conquered or murdered the entirety of Gotham City...he had never treated her like this. Never treated her with anything besides intellectual equality, with respect. The huge finger on her throat rolled slowly across her chin, just under her lip. Bane watched its path with hard eyes. She felt the familiar heat of him and quaked. He'd made exceptions. She'd felt special, felt listened to. And she'd made exceptions for him, imagined that he was something else, but now she knew. She knew this guy. He was a terrorist and now she was an ornament, and it wasn't, _wasn't, **wasn't**_ fair.

_Unappreciated, unappreciated, unappreciated brainiac. Poor, pretty, little unappreciated brainiac._

"Bane?"

It felt odd to say his name, having never said it aloud to his face. To Mel it felt like crumbling bricks in the wall that made him mythical; he was only a titan so long as he held that stature, as long as she believed in him. Her breath grazed his thumb where it rested against her lip, and when she looked up she found him waiting. Mel leaned ever so slightly closer.

"You're fucking incapable of unshackling me."

As the words whispered across the skin of his hand Mel was turning, slamming the door behind her and storming into City Hall. Through the ringing in her ears she didn't hear Bane follow, didn't hear him on her heels, didn't even hear him exit the truck. Even so, as she crossed the lobby she broke into a run.

She was hurt. That was the worst part.

\--

xo, trppnwtz


	10. Chapter 10

\--- _ **TRIGGER WARNING**_ \---

Nonconsensual touching and nonconsensual drug usage!

I'll include a brief overview of the action in a footnote at the end of the chapter, so please feel free to scroll. Take care of yourselves. :)

Back to normal business: thank you all so very much for your reads, follows, subscriptions, and comments! I smile every time they tumble into my inbox.

* * *

It was 2:37pm.

An eerie little slither of cold went down Mel's spine as she stared across the empty lab. Dr. Crane had been uncharacteristically absent since she'd first arrived. Purely to redress his earlier violation of _her_ station, at some point in the midmorning she had slipped over and poked through his things. All there was to find was some sparse typed annotations about equipment with a scrawled phrase at the bottom of the page: _meconopsis relatus._ She frowned and pressed against her fuzzy, tired brain. What sleep she'd gotten the night before had been restless and tense, jerking awake every few minutes in anticipation of something that loomed just beyond the shadow line. She'd run her fingers over the words. _Meconopsis_ was a genus of _papaveraceae,_ which contained a wide range of cultivations and functions. Poppies were members of _papaveraceae_ , all of them from the great Persian scarlet to their small blue Himalayan cousins. Even the mad psychiatrist was working on a botany project while she made pharmaceuticals from snails. She'd scowled and shoved the paper away. No wonder everyone on the fucking planet thought she was a chemist. Something clunked dully in the hallway- something that she later suspected had been an air duct settling -and she'd scurried back to her station. She had waited, her heart pounding in her ears. Nothing happened.

Mel looked across the room at Crane's scrawled words once again. She looked at the door again, looked back at the computer screen again, all for the millionth time. The whole day had been the same cycle repeated over and over again.

_Meconopsis relatus_ , door, laptop, repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

She was waiting. Waiting for _something_ to happen. Waiting for the fucking hexagons on the screen to become less complicated. Waiting for the building to explode. Waiting for the doorway to darken and the hiss of a mask. She did the cycle again, _meconopsis relatus_ , door, laptop. Nothing happened. Her hands were clammy and restless on the workbench. She crossed her legs one way then, a moment later, the other way. It was naive to suppose her actions yesterday were going to go unaddressed. There was no fucking way. _Meconopsis relatus_ , door, laptop. So why was nothing happening? Mel leaned close to the screen and cradled her face in her fingers. She didn't regret anything she had done and certainly didn't regret anything she had said. Maybe she did. Probably not. No, definitely not. Her eyes whizzed over the knotted molecular structure in agitation. No wonder the conotoxin needed to be administered in gas form. Suddenly something tugged sharply at her memory and she sat back. She closed her eyes and thought hard, weeding gingerly through the mess to try to pull it forward, whatever it was. It was still in there, Mel could feel it, but it hung swathed in darkness at the periphery of her mind. She pressed futilely against the shadows that concealed it, but soon gave up. _Meconopsis relatus_ , door, laptop, _meconopsis relatus_ , door, laptop, nothing nothing nothing.

When Barsad walked through the door hours later she jumped to her feet. _Finally_. Whatever it was would start now and she was ready. Something would happen. He led her down the same hall in silence, out into the evening, across the empty street to the same car. Nothing. The brisk autumn wind whispered through her hair and chided her in a thin voice. _Not yet_ , it chuckled. _When?_ , Mel wanted to yell but the wind whisked away in a new direction. They drove the same way they'd done dozens of times before. Barsad said nothing. She ran her thumb nail back and forth over her opposite palm, over and over and over. She waited and he just stared forward.

"Thanks for bringing me my plant."

The words bubbled out of her mouth. She had to do _something,_ had to say _something_ , had to make some small attempt at _something_ happening or she was going to burst. He glanced at her.

"Julius. That's his name."

Barsad blinked and looked away. His thumb swiped the steering wheel. She stared forward at the same street and waited once again. They walked up the same front steps, through the same wide doors into City Hall. The path would continue across the lobby, up the same stairs and down the same hall to the same office at the corner of the third floor. Mel took a step towards the stairs; a hand closed around her elbow before she could take another. Her organs stuttered like an old car engine. Whatever it was that coursed through her veins was like anticipation or relief but it tasted old and sharp. She looked down at Barsad's grip. His face was hard.

"Don't fight. It'll make it worse."

She didn't hear or see him approach but Mel felt it when Bane was behind her. That ripple of something that was him, the massiveness. The behemoth closed his hand around the back of her neck and she was propelled towards the other side of the lobby, down the stairs to the basement. She'd been wrong; she wasn't ready.

"Wha-"

The air was thick as she tried to fill her lungs to form words. Finally she managed to fling a single word into the dark hallway.

" _No!"_

She stumbled and twisted but the hand half pressed, half dragged her onwards. It was like being caught in a riptide; she was driven forward even as she fought to run, even as she dug her heels into the linoleum, even as she clung to the familiar doorframe of the delousing shower. She lurched inside and whirled, looking for the mop or anything to use as a weapon. All of it was gone. All that was left behind was the old tile lining every surface.

And a chain shackle drilled roughly into the wall.

It had not been there before. Her brain observed it almost analytically because the truth of what it meant for her was too sinister. The voice that left her mouth sounded too calm, too reasonable.

"No."

It took a minor effort from one of Bane's hands to bring her to the floor. Mel darted and tried to crawl away.

"No, no no-"

When the shackle locked around her ankle she was still for a moment. The tile felt smooth and cool beneath her knees. The door remained open a crack and she could see the light in the hallway shining through like a tall bright pillar. She stared at it for a beat, for another, and then the madness hit her. Mel flailed, she spat and fought and tugged fiercely and aimlessly against the heavy chain.

" _ **What the fuck are you doing?**_ "

Bane knelt before her. In his hand was a small tray with a pile of fine blue grey powder at the center. As he brought a match to it and the powder began to smoke, Mel howled and swung a kick at the tray. Her foot made it less than half way before it was wrenched back to the floor. In a flash Bane's massive hand was curled around the back of her head and, like a lion cub scruffed in the mouth of an adult, she hung in petrified stillness. The mask whirred as he held the burning powder beneath her nose. His thumb stroked the place where her jaw met her ear. A sour tendril of smoke twisted into her nostrils she gagged and tried to turn away.

" _Fuck_ _**you**_ , I'm not-"

Later she would remember Bane's green eyes as they glimmered no more than a foot away. There was no anger in them, nothing malicious to cause her fear. They swam with anticipation, with sharpness, with melancholy. The smell of the smoke was overwhelming and she opened her mouth to cough when, suddenly, there came a swift punch from within her own guts.

She was frozen, terrified and in pain, then again, again, again.

Mel realized that something was writhing to life inside of her torso and she began to scream. She thrashed as it fought to bust out of her skin, to gouge out her eyes and ear drums and smother her as it plunged through her nose and mouth into the world. She choked on air, she withered in the cold, she wept and shrieked and begged all while trying to bite back the thing that fought to slither out of her for what seemed like hours.

The taste of blood exploded across her tongue.

She felt barely alive, like someone only just managing to keep their head above water.

Except the water was blood and it froze her flesh until it blackened and crumbled away.

There was coolness and strangeness in the crook of what had once been her elbow. Her lungs reformed as she fell fast and she gasped for breath, only to have it knocked out of her as she landed on coldness and hardness. As Mel opened her eyes and the old tile swam into focus, she rolled over and vomited until she had nothing left in her to throw up. Then she was pulled roughly to her feet and dragged, dragged up and up, back to the little office and laid on the floor in the dark. The room shifted and lurched and she clenched her eyes and knew nothing for a time.

When she next woke it was with her stomach growling, her brain pounding, and a throbbing pain in her elbow. Shakily she reached for Julius, and when he wouldn't look at her a sob rasped from her sour mouth. Then the door swung open and she was dragged back.

"No," she croaked, "please no, please no, please _please_ please-"

The shackle locked heavily around her ankle once more and she was strangled with the smell of old sick and the horrible familiar smoke and then she was back.

-

For a man to know his purpose is a rarity. The knowledge could never be meant to reassure, to calm, to satisfy; for this reason a purpose could be neither a blessing nor a curse. It was simply inevitable. He had first known his purpose all those years ago as chaos swarmed around them in the Pit. His size, his wretchedness, the hole within him that the little princess curled inside and warmed- all had been for the purpose of her rising. As he lay bloody and ruined and staring forward into the path of his imminent death, he felt fulfilled. His work was complete. And yet, as the pain shattered through his skull and down the wreckage of his spine, he was ashamed to know the smallest whisper of a question. He had done what was necessary. _But was that all?_

Time would be his educator.

Time would see him drawn out of the Pit and into the wide, light world. It would see him bathed and built and hated. It would see him masked. And, with the lessons that Time would offer, he came to see that it was not a singular offering that he was meant to give. The Pit had been a mold where he would come to be like no other man so that, when he was brought into the light, he would be something _other_. The kind of thing that creeps from within the crevasse, the kind of thing that those of light summon forth from places foul and ancient: a shadow. Evil, just like good, was necessary. He would be this necessary evil.

And so he became.

In moments of quiet, twisting well-worn cord between his fingers or watching a fire twine its tongues against the empty air, there were still whispers now and again. He remembered each second, each swell and each detail, of the moment he had first thought was his purpose. And, although Time had shown him differently, he wondered at it; at the warmth he had felt, at the trueness of the experience. On one such night he had sat and gazed out across the ocean; far out a storm raged, flashing and rumbling and leaving shards of lightning reflected in the churning waves. Thousands of nights had rolled away into the past since his banishment: thousands and thousands and thousands. And yet it was her voice that crackled through the satellite phone that night.

"Weaver."

He had known it at once, strong like a wave and soft as despair from a dark hole a lifetime ago. Bane had listened, had said nothing. She spoke again.

"Weaver."

Neither the heat from the desert sand beneath his feet- left over from the day's scorching sun - nor the whisper of the nighttime breeze from across the dark sea could soothe the ache in his soul. It was not pain nor joy, this ache. It was memory.

"Princess."

When they were reunited he felt a flare of that trueness once more, sharp and warm like loneliness, even as the Swiss winter wind chilled his flesh. The princess had risen. The little beacon that had never belonged in such a place. Time had been her educator as well, and the girl had become a woman. They had stood in the snow and regarded one another. Years wore away at bones and flesh but still she was bright and blue and very much herself. He wondered if she thought the same of him. As a woman Talia was resourceful, intelligent, ambitious; her impact investment firm in Bern was auspicious and respected. A small portion of its profits became contributing funds to the League although, she had declared with finality, this constituted the entirety of her connection. He had blinked slowly, then nodded. Loyalty, as he knew well, ran in one's marrow. He did not fault her for it, though he could not bring himself to revoke his hatred of the man whose name neither of them would utter out loud.

The circumstances, however, had changed.

Time had shown her that her purpose was to be that same loyalty, the completion of an inherited purpose of her father's: Gotham City. And it was bitterness that rippled through him when he understood. _Surely there was more?_ Surely, after everything, she was meant for something more? And she assured him there _was_ more. The city would fall to ashes, yes, and alongside its ruin would be the destruction of its vigilante. Bruce Wayne, the Batman. Talia had burrowed her nose into the collar of her jacket.

"It shall be a reward for my patience."

She had worn no gloves and when her fingers had curled around his they were chilled. Even so, as he looked down at the small clever hand and felt the unfamiliar gentle touch his face softened. He pressed his thumb against her wrist and felt the heartbeat inside.

"It shall."

And so they began.

It was many years later that he stood in the darkness, surrounded by the trappings of excessive and undeserved wealth. The lights of Gotham shone against the inky black sky and he stood in the empty room, waiting. It would be some hours yet until their pawn would join him and he bathed in the time and in the quiet. A slice of lamplight reflected his mask in the window. He blinked heavily. His fingers moved to brush over the mesh, to feel the hiss of air that whispered past his thumb and slithered along his shoulders and down his spine. It was a reminder, always, of the part he was to play. For although it was darkness all around him now, he was not in his own world. The world of light was open to him only so long as he paid the toll. Was he not doing it? Was not this final act, this cause he had taken as his own...did it not free him?

Sound from the next room filtered through the wall and his thoughts melted into the night. He listened to the quiet tinkling of the piano, something old and melancholy. Beneath the mask the man smiled bitterly. The occupant next door, this unknown musical shade, played for him a swan song. The smile grew even as his eyes hardened and focused back out of the window. Time, it seemed, could not be made more clear. His hand dropped from the mask to twist against the smoothness of his jacket.

" _Let music sound while he doth make his choice_ ;"

His voice whirred even as he spoke softly; he had forgotten what it might sound like without the machine.

" _Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,_

_Fading in music._ "

The interruption came in the form of voices, slick and sour from him and turbulent from her. Their exchange escalated and Bane turned his attention away, looking back out of the window at the twinkling, opulent city once more. Perhaps Talia was right, he mused as the disturbance next door stuttered to an end. Perhaps _Ra's_ had been right; perhaps Gotham's time had come. There was no saving a place like this.

When the hall had silenced once more he slipped like a shadow into the piano room. The air was charged and unhappy. A wisp of perfume brushed against him, and he thought of the evening sun on wide tropical leaves. It was then that the orchid, tucked away in a location on a different table, seized his attention. He stared at the small white flowers, touched the newly dampened soil; it felt cool and alive against his finger. The little plant seemed to thrum with life, with potential, with a newly acquired sense of expectation. Her reentry through the door was tumultuous, a flash of bare arms and fervor and tear-tracked cheeks. The shadow regarded the shade and she looked back into him arrogantly; a broken, angry creature.

"If everyone is in the void, where does that put you and I?"

The smell of her perfume was clearer now. His lungs filled with it as it whispered past the mesh and through his lips. Once more, he felt that little flare of memory, of purpose.

She reminded him of his princess.

-

Mel wasn't sure exactly how many times it happened. She began to lose track of time in general; after a while the hunger stopped nagging, the headache stopped registering, she probably slept but couldn't be sure what was sleep and what was nothing and what was nightmare and what was hallucination. Everything blurred together.

One day, as she came up for air from the water that was not water, the thing that wriggled inside of her managed to slither free of her lips and after that there was no stopping it. The thing shot out of her eyes and nostrils and twisted into her ears and through her brain and then it made its way into her blood. It filled every vein, every artery, and then it became her air, her thoughts, her heartbeat; she realized that it was alive and _she_ was alive and they were alive together.

Curling, twisting, unraveling and untwining inside of her.

What she called a body was truly just a husk.

A shell.

A pod.

It was protecting something precious.

Slowly, it coiled itself back through her eyes and veins and nestled contentedly in her belly where it had begun, humming and thriving. She floated and knew that that burning hole had never ever been a hole; never had it been an _absence_ of being, but all the while had been something growing, incubating.

Waiting to bloom. Waiting for her. She was silent and suddenly so aware of how cold the world was, how cold and dark and and and-

They needed to _survive,_ but how could they?

Something between a sigh and a gasp fluttered across her lips. Her mouth moved endlessly and soundlessly; she lost herself for a time, tangled in an emerald dream.

She thought of hexagons; hexagons that built shapes that traveled and coiled along synapses like vines-

over ageless trees and,

their leaves and their bark-

of the reactor, of fusion and the heat in which it produced, of its warm green lights like a dappled forest floor.

What pulled her back was a driving purpose. To protect. To save.

And warmth.

_Such_ warmth and glorious heat surrounding her as she rose from the tiles, and she knew somewhere in her mind that **he** had her now. They moved away from the room that was a cocoon, and he was so warm-

Like the sun, like the _sun_ that fed the thing that grew inside of her.

The coolness in the crook of her arm began to spread and the green cleared from her eyes. As she watched the neutral colored walls of the third floor move by them, Mel rested her cheek against his chest and fed on his power and heat. She felt a cloth wipe across her face and neck; she closed her eyes as the grime and salt tears came away. When a brim pressed to her lips she guzzled the cool water until there was none left, and then she was lifted and settled some place soft. She curled into it but it was when the heat returned- when _he_ returned -enveloping her, that she sighed and basked and knew that she was ready.

Tilled, cleaned, watered, and warmed and ready to sink into sleep.

* * *

xo, trppnwtz

_Trigger warning content synopsis_ : Crane does not return to the lab the next day and Mel works nervously, awaiting some kind of retribution for her actions. When Barsad brings her back to City Hall Bane brings her down to the delousing closet and, with the powdered drug created by the League of Shadows, prompts Mel to hallucinate that she contains something writhing and painful. This occurs several times until the thing busts past her control and she identifies it as a part of her and heartily decides that it has to thrive. Bane gives her the antidote in shot form and carries her back to the third floor to sleep.


End file.
